


A Clock With No Hands

by heathtrash



Category: The Worst Witch (TV 2017), The Worst Witch - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Confinement, Eventual Fluff, F/F, Fluff and Angst, Hecate Hardbroom's pocket watch, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Original Character(s), Repression, Slow Burn, Useless Lesbians
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2020-08-11 03:21:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 133,165
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20146762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/heathtrash/pseuds/heathtrash
Summary: Miss Cackle’s Academy for Witches is soon to host the Autumn Equinox celebration of Mabon in a revival of a traditional inter-school festival. Hecate Hardbroom has taken it upon herself to ensure its success and organisation, but this will bring her into close contact with a certain Miss Pippa Pentangle with whom she has a complicated and painful history.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Many lonely women found great companionship with even quite ordinary cats.”  
Sylvia Townsend Warner, _Lolly Willowes_

Hecate dipped her quill into her crimson inkwell. Alone in her office, sat at her writing desk, was the only sensible way to spend a Friday evening for Miss Hardbroom, Deputy Head and Potions Mistress of Miss Cackle’s Academy for Witches. Surrounded by shelves towering with hundreds of musty tomes, shining sets of scales and other various measuring apparatus, and glass bottles containing magics too precious for the potions laboratory, she was marking a truly reprehensible batch of potions homework from her first year class. It was only the second week of term but already she had given her first years a somewhat tricky assignment. What with the Autumn Equinox coming up in a fortnight’s time, it was essential that the girls learnt proper discipline. Miss Cackle’s Academy was to host Mabon for four witching academies: Miss Pentangle’s, Miss Amethyst’s, and Moonridge High, with Miss Cackle’s as the location where the festival would take place this year for the first time in several decades. Miss Hardbroom had been working diligently all summer to ensure the successful organisation of the inaugural congress of the four academies. It had to be _perfect_.

Hecate’s bony hand poised the nib glistening with deep red ink over the answer to the last question of Mildred Hubble’s homework.

“Incorrect again, Mildred Hubble,” Hecate uttered to herself, etching a pitiless X beside Mildred Hubble’s pitiful handwriting. She scrawled 0% at the top of the paper and placed the quill back in its stand.

Hecate beckoned to the next piece of homework with her black-taloned hand, and it floated up from the stack of papers to be marked, borne on a bed of twinkling magical orbs, and rested gently onto the smooth green leather surface of her writing desk. 

Unlike Mildred’s chaotic clusters of cramped writing, the neat lines of evenly spaced penmanship that lay before her brought an expression of satisfaction, if not a smile, to Hecate’s lips. And of course, the name at the top was that of Ethel Hallow, her star student. It came as no surprise to her that within the first answer, Ethel had managed a level of academic sophistication that Mildred had failed to grasp and would quite probably struggle with her entire school career. Hecate was of the opinion that some students would simply never be as capable as others, and that a witch with a slapdash approach was both unwitchlike and irresponsible in regards to the safety of her fellow witches. Thus, eager to merit the restrained and precise responses Ethel Hallow had given, Hecate dipped her quill into the inkwell with a practised motion and wrote “_excellent work_” in her slanting calligraphy. There was something eminently gratifying about a correct answer, particularly a competent one from a Hallow.

The soft fur of her familiar pressed against her ankles just under the hem of her long black skirt. Morgana could always perceive what her mistress was feeling, and at present, she sensed the ease in her mood. Hecate put one long arm down to caress the cat’s plush black fur, down her back to her tail, and let Morgana’s tail coil around her wrist. She allowed herself to linger in thought for a moment before returning to her work.

Hecate had almost completed marking the potions assignments when a soft knock came at the door. She was startled from being so deep in her occupation, but her response was merely to stiffen slightly and rest her quill in its stand.

“Enter,” she said, straightening her already immaculate posture and looking up to see the round, bespectacled face framed with short, silver hair gleaming gold in the low candlelight, of Miss Cackle, garbed in one of her usual bright woolly jumpers. Hecate rose to her feet at once. “Miss Cackle, what can I do for you?”

Ada smiled and waved her hand for Hecate to resume her seat. Hecate remained standing. At her place bolt upright beside Hecate’s black boots, Morgana blinked in deference to the headmistress.

Ada approached the writing desk and patted the tall stack of marked homework. “Hecate, my, my! You have been busy—and on a Friday night with lessons barely ended.”

“It is always best to strike while the iron is hot, Miss Cackle,” Hecate replied with solemnity. “There is still much preparation to be done for the Autumn Equinox. I also have my nightly duties to attend to—patrolling the corridors and ensuring all girls are asleep.”

Ada looked upon her deputy head with a sensitive smile. “Would you care to join me for a spot of tea?”

“Thank you, Miss Cackle, but I am still working. Was there something you needed my help with?”

“Ah yes—about the Equinox.” Ada paused for a moment, wrinkling her brow as if choosing her words as carefully as possible. “Do you think you’re possibly… taking on too much of the responsibility yourself?”

Hecate raised her eyebrows. “Not at all. I am perfectly capable of taking on a task of such importance. It would be the utmost honour for me to perform this duty for Cackle’s.”

“Yes—I don't doubt that you are up to the task, Hecate, nor do I doubt that you would treat it with the reverence such a task demands.” The older woman gave her a long, searching look. It was surprising to Hecate how exacting such a gentle person in chunky cabled knitwear could be. “I’m just concerned that you might find it… emotionally difficult. I know that you and Pippa Pentangle once had a sort of falling out.”

Hecate broke eye contact and focused on a set of measuring scales. “You know about that, Ada?”

“Well, my dear, while it happened a long time ago, I do recall how close you girls once were, but after—”

“—Ada, I would rather not—”

“—what I mean is, that if you would rather have an intermediary—”

“—Ada.”

Silence rang between the two women. Hecate, hands by her heart, ran her thumb along the chain of the pocket watch that hung about her neck, down to the watch and fumbled for its crown to open the filigree half-hunter cover.

“I had really better return to my work,” Hecate said in a quiet voice, barely above a whisper. “No rest for the wicked.” 

“Of course, Hecate. But consider what I have said—and please do ask for help, should you find yourself in need of it.”

Hecate bowed her head in respect, her ears colouring ever so slightly pinker than normal. “Yes, Headmistress.”

Ada stood for a moment looking at the severe younger woman, her mouth a worried line, before heading for the door. Out of the corner of her eye, Hecate saw Ada take one more glance back at her before her silver hair vanished out of sight.

Hecate closed her pocket watch. Alone once more in her silent study, she gathered her hands together; the feeling of her own cold, thin fingers folded over her hands was barely a comfort to her, but it was something. Yet as soon as she realised she was dithering, she scolded herself, even as her eyes stung with the effort not to tear up. She had to focus on her duties and not waste any more time in frivolous reminiscing. She was Hecate Hardbroom, and she did _not_ reminisce.

* * *

With all her marking for the night completed and the girls’ scores registered in her marking book, Hecate now stalked the corridors of the dormitories. The shadows cowered out of her way as she walked, the lantern hovering alongside her steadily. If it had breath, it would be holding it in fear of disciplinary action from the imposing figure commanding it.

Try hard as she might to squash any memory of her conversation with Miss Cackle out of her mind, the headmistress’s voice echoed in her thoughts. She was affronted that Miss Cackle would question her indomitable capacity to handle difficult situations. Certainly the strength and integrity were the cornerstones of Hecate Hardbroom’s essence. No matter what may or may not have happened with a young Miss Pentangle and herself many, _many_ years ago in the heady storm of a misguided youth, there was absolutely no chance that Hecate Hardbroom would allow this kind of distraction to hinder her professionalism or affect in any way the opportunity she had been granted to let Miss Cackle’s Academy shine.

A sound shook her from her train of thought—which, in hindsight, had been a self-indulgent and somewhat arrogant measure of her own worth, she reprimanded herself—something that sounded suspiciously like trouble. At once, keen to weed out the source of the disturbance, Hecate transferred herself and her lantern directly into the offending dormitory with a twist of her long-fingered hand.

As her vision materialised, Hecate saw at once that the disturbance had been nothing more than a girl who had just discovered a dead mouse that her cat had presented for her lying beside her head. The yelping of the young witch would have surprised her the first time this had happened, but fortunately, Hecate had encountered this very situation numerous times.

“M-Miss Hardbroom!” the girl gasped as she noticed the teacher’s striking form emerge from a magical mist.

“Not to worry, Charlotte Gimlett,” Hecate drawled, as she sent the mouse into vanishment with an idle wave of her hand. Charlotte stared at the spot on the pillow where the mouse had lain, looking ashen-faced in contrast with her dark grey pyjamas. Hecate raised an eyebrow at the frozen girl. “Well? Are you quite recovered?”

Hecate tilted her neck to better see Charlotte’s expression, and saw to her alarm that the girl had begun to cry.

“I— I— Thebe— she’s never—”

“That is what cats are wont to do, Charlotte,” Hecate said in as nice a voice as she could manage without sounding too patronising.

“I— I know— but Miss Hardbroom—”

This was not looking like an easily defused situation. The girl had worked herself up into a state and it would almost certainly be hours before she would be able to get to sleep. Hecate sighed inwardly. Although it was the weekend tomorrow, and there were no scheduled lessons, a sleep-deprived, traumatised girl did not do homework well.

“Would you like something to help calm you down?” Hecate asked. 

In the low light cast by the floating lantern, Hecate saw her tear-streaked face nod. She put her hand on the girl’s shoulder, and transferred them directly to the potions laboratory. 

The temperature in here was much cooler; Charlotte’s inconsistent, shallow breaths sent plumes of vapour into the air. Hecate put her hands together and drew them apart, as if opening a tape measure, and instantly pulled out of nothing a thick, tartan wool blanket, which she handed to the shivering girl to encircle herself in. 

“Sit,” Hecate said to Charlotte, pointing to a chair at the front desk that had not been there seconds before. The lantern lowered onto the desk at an indication from Hecate’s hand. She then turned to her shelves, which were glittering with glass potion bottles. She reached for a large teardrop-shaped vessel containing a pale blue liquid and set it on her desk, along with a small goblet. Charlotte watched her teacher cautiously and rubbed her eyes with a corner of the blanket, as Hecate decanted a measure of the potion into the goblet, and placed her fingers on its base. After a few muttered words, from the pale blue contents a wisp began to spiral into the cold air.

“Here,” Hecate said awkwardly, edging the goblet towards Charlotte on the other side of the desk. “Drink. It is a calming concoction. It will be slightly hot.”

The shaking Miss Gimlett took the goblet and sipped a little of the potion with an uneasy frown. A faint colour spread along her cheeks as she swallowed, and she began to drink more eagerly.

“Your cat, Thebe, was it? She might well do this again. But you must understand that cats only present their mistresses with dead mice as gifts. This means that she is bonding with you. It should be quite the honour considering you were only united with her but a fortnight ago.” Hecate’s mouth twitched into the semblance of a smile, which faltered as though the muscles weren't used to maintaining such an expression. “It is a little shocking when it happens unexpectedly, particularly when you are awoken to such an unpleasant surprise, but now you will be prepared mentally for any subsequent repetitions of Thebe’s gift-giving.”

“Th-thank you, Miss Hardbroom. I’ve just been finding everything so difficult. I didn’t mean to cause a fuss like this. I’m so sorry, I don’t think I’m going to be a good witch if I’m scared of a dead mouse. And my cat, now.”

“You may be interested to know that I have just marked your year’s potions homework,” Hecate said. At Charlotte’s terrified look, she hastily added, “you performed… adequately.”

The girl did not look very comforted by this, but seemed to be more bewildered than scared or shocked, which Hecate counted as an improvement. Perhaps the girl had heard that she did not give praise freely and was wondering what to make of this. Saying the ‘right thing’ had never come easily to her. This was more Miss Cackle’s territory.

“Remember that many lonely women find great companionship with even quite ordinary cats. A magical cat, though they perform an important duty as a witch’s familiar, can also be the source of companionship over the years,” Hecate said, tensing her square jaw to attempt to disguise the flicker of her own loneliness threatening to falter her voice. “Now, it is high time you return to bed. The potion that I gave to you should help you rest well now. However—” and here Hecate poured a little more of the calming concoction into a glass vial and stoppered it “—here is a little more for you in case you have another unwanted night-time awakening.”

“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom,” the girl said gratefully. She hesitated before shrugging out of the blanket and standing, reaching out for the proffered vial.

“I am going to transfer you back to your room, now, if you are feeling better?”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom. Thank you,” the girl responded, and as soon as she had uttered the words, she vanished into mist with one sweep of Hecate’s hand.

The shadowy potions laboratory fell silent. It was a relief being here at night when none of the students were around to cause havoc. Three broken flasks had had to be cleaned up only today. On days such as this, sometimes all she wanted was to retreat to her bedchambers with only the companionship of Morgana, but, as she reminded herself, she had responsibilities to enrich her mind. She closed her hand over the heap of blanket, which now had a damp patch and a string of snot on its corner, and, folding it in mid-air, sent it back to her own bedchamber. It had been freshly laundered and now would have to be cleaned of child snot. Sighing, Hecate tidied away the empty goblet and the calming concoction, before transferring herself back to the dormitory hallway.

The dark corridor was immediately illuminated by Hecate’s lantern, and the messy, lank brown hair of a pale, shocked—

“—_Mildred Hubble_, where do you think you are going with those potions ingredients?”

For in her arms was a collection of roots and weeds Hecate recognised from the supply closet. However, the look of false innocence on the young girl’s face was deluding nobody, least of all the deductive Hecate Hardbroom.

“Detention.” Hecate seethed as the word escaped her teeth. Mildred lurched forwards as the potions ingredients vanished from her arms. “Report to my office tomorrow first thing. Now back to bed.”

“But Miss Hardbroom—”

“Silence. To your room.”

Whatever excuses Mildred had to offer, Hecate was not interested to hear at this time of night. She began to wonder whether Charlotte Gimlett had been perhaps the convincing distraction for whatever escapade Hecate had just interrupted. This would have to be investigated fully tomorrow. She followed the crestfallen Mildred to the door of her dorm room, and watched, eyes apoplectic as the girl stumbled over her trailing bootlaces inside. Hecate closed the door with a snap, and cast a sealing charm on the lock that would deactivate in the morning on Hecate’s awakening.

While she headed to the other wing of the castle to continue her vigil, her fingers found themselves on the pocket watch around her neck for the second time that evening. Her thoughts turned again unbidden to Pippa and how fate would force them together once more in merely a fortnight’s time. Of course she had seen the headmistress of Pentangle’s since their split, what with them both being high-ranking faculty members, but their meetings had always been brief, when not avoided completely, and scarcely been anything more than professional exchanges. The Pippa she revolved in her mind now, however, was the vision in the gold dress who had utterly mortified her at the ball all those years ago. While she had been in silver—cold, sterile, and reflective of no warmth of her own—Pippa had been radiant in gold, laughing with her friends, popular as ever. Even though she had no reasonable explanation of what she could have changed, Hecate longed to be back in that moment, to turn back the hands of the clock, but it was too late for her now. Moreover, silly reminiscence was ineffective at initiating any kind of change, and only squandered opportunities in the present of achieving success. And at present, Hecate’s primary duty was to Cackle’s Academy’s triumph at the Mabon festival.

The pocket watch in her hands flicked open at her touch, and she gazed into the clock face. Its exposed movement looked blankly back at her. The years may have passed, but a single moment in history held the pocket watch in suspension. A clock with no hands—ever close to her heart, ever closed to the hearts of others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this fic I’m using a quotation from the writings of wlw/qlw from the early C20th as a kind of prompt for each chapter because I’m quite nerdy about that era.
> 
> This chapter’s prompt is from _Lolly Willowes_ by Sylvia Townsend Warner. If you haven’t had the pleasure of reading it, it’s a novel about a woman who decides she’s done with heteronormativity and taking care of her brother’s children and moves to the country on her own to become a witch. It predates Virginia Woolf’s _A Room of One’s Own_ while saying a lot of the same things.
> 
> The title of the fic is a line from episode 3x06 The Game, where Hecate reveals that her pocket watch has no hands: “I have a clock with no hands which tells the time better than you do.” This line has been buzzing around my head for a while so I thought I should write through my feelings about it. (But really it’s because I’m terrible at titles.)
> 
> This is my first published attempt at fanfic so I’m really nervous about posting it!! I also haven’t written anything in 5ever. I really hope you enjoy it. Thank you for reading!
> 
> Heathcliff  
@heathtrash on tumblr


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Mildred does what she does best—that is, fall heels over broomstick into trouble—Hecate has a trying morning dealing with Mildred’s mess, and a new member of staff.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “Vain trifles as they seem, clothes have, they say, more important offices than merely to keep us warm. They change our view of the world and the world’s view of us.”  
Virginia Woolf, _Orlando_

Paws sunk through the duvet over her body, then the whiskers tickled into her nose as an inquisitive cat face sniffed and a scratchy tongue began to lick her eyelid.

“_Tabby!_” 

Mildred screwed up her face and sat up in bed. For a moment she’d forgotten what happened last night and was excited that it was Saturday. She and Maud and Enid had plans to take the kittens and go for a picnic in the grounds. But then it dawned on her. In the greyish light coming in through the window she remembered—last night H.B. had materialised in front of her like something from a nightmare and caught her stealing from the potions supply cupboard.

It wasn’t _bad_ stealing. Technically. It was all Ethel Hallow’s fault. If it hadn't been for Ethel, Maud would still have her potions bag and would be able to complete her Autumn Equinox project. But try telling that to H.B. She practically worshipped Ethel and her big sister Esmerelda.

Mildred groaned at the morning she had in wait for her and pulled on her clothes. The clock on the wall told her it was five to seven. Way too early for a Saturday. She was sure H.B. would already be waiting for her. H.B. had said “first thing” but when exactly was that? Maybe Maud would have a better idea. Maud was good at things like this. 

Mildred was half-done plaiting one side of her hair as she got to the door. She put her hand on the door knob but it was frozen in place, as if it was made of stone. That was weird. She pushed against it but it was stuck fast. Was this some kind of magic trick someone was playing on her? Maybe Enid’s idea of a joke?

Mildred’s first instinct was to text one of her friends, but her phone had been confiscated at the start of term. But then she remembered the maglet! She rushed over to her scrubbed wooden desk and emptied her bag. The maglet fell out, amidst a cascade of chewed papers (“Thanks for that, Tabby…”), a loose broken quill, a pencil case, a ruler, rough book, homework planner, a battered chanting spell book, and a couple of ink bottles that had been clinking about in the bottom.

Mildred snatched up the maglet and began scrawling a quick message to Maud and Enid. 

_Help! I’m stuck in my room. Someone’s locked my door by magic!  
—Mildred_

But, thought Mildred glumly, it could be hours before Maud or Enid would wake up. It was still really early, but her meeting with H.B. could be starting at any minute. Maybe she could send a maglet message to H.B. saying that she was stuck? Nope, that was a terrible idea. H.B. already thought she was the worst witch, and Mildred could only imagine how furious she would be if Mildred bothered her about something as silly as a prank one of the other girls had played on her. And she had a sneaky suspicion it was Enid, and definitely didn’t want to get one of her best friends in trouble.

Mildred finished plaiting the other side of her hair while sitting on her bed. Tabby kept batting his paws at her hair, extending his tiny claws, eyes alert and round as saucers. She had tried the door every five minutes to see if it was a spell that ran out with time, but it didn’t work.

It had now been an hour since she had sent the maglet message and neither Maud nor Enid had responded. Mildred pried Tabby off her lap, unhooking his needle claws from her pinafore, and carried him to the window until he scampered out and made a bid for freedom, landing on all four paws with a gentle plop. Mildred tried the window latch to see if it was sealed like the door. It moved freely under her hand. Aha! Well, that would have to be Plan B, she thought, peering down from the tower at the long drop. 

Just then, a jingle came from her maglet. Mildred hopped back onto the bed and opened it.

_Millie, go back to sleep! It’s Saturday. It’ll probably have worn off when you wake up. See you later.  
—Enid_

Then it wasn’t Enid’s prank. So what could it be? She sent another message quickly, hoping Enid wouldn’t have gone back to sleep yet.

_Enid, it’s really important! Got in big trouble last night and I’ve got detention with H.B. I’ll be late if I don’t get out. Please help!!  
—Mildred_

Mildred had secretly hoped Maud would have picked up the message first, not because she liked Enid less, but because Maud usually had a sensible head and would know just the book to look for the counterspell for a magically sealed lock. Then again, maybe it was for the best Maud didn’t know about her detention with H.B. Knowing Maud, she would seriously disapprove of why Mildred had got into trouble. Also… she didn’t know Mildred had accidentally set all her potions ingredients bag on fire. That would be awkward to explain.

“Millie!” said a muffled voice at the door. Mildred raced over so she could hear better.

“Enid! What should we do?” 

The door shook as Enid tried the handle. “We could try breaking it down? What about a blasting spell?”

“Don’t be silly, Enid! That’ll get me into way more trouble than I’m already in. Something less destructive? Something that doesn’t involve blowing up school property?”

“I’ll wake Maud. She probably knows the spell to undo this.”

“Wait! I don’t want Maud knowing I’m in trouble with HB. We might have to do Plan B.”

“What’s Plan B?” Mildred could hear the excitement in Enid’s voice even though she couldn’t see her face.

“Go to the broom shed and fly up to my window, then I’ll get on and we can land in the courtyard. I’ll hang my sash out the window so you can tell which one’s mine.”

“Millie that’s absolutely bonkers! Let’s do it!”

“Just don’t get caught! You don’t want to join me in detention with H.B., do you? Good luck!”

Enid left, and Mildred felt an adrenaline rush as she thought about the prison break. The plan seemed solid, if they could pull it off. It would be at least ten minutes before Enid could get to the broom shed from here. She started repacking her bag in preparation for her detention with H.B. Tabby tried to get into the bag too, but she scooped him out and put him back on her messy twist of bedsheets.

“Wish I could take you with me, Tabby, but you don’t want to see H.B. when she’s really mad.”

Mildred tried the door handle one last time, just to see if it would budge. It didn’t. She looked at the clock to try to guess where Enid might be. Mildred really hoped Enid hadn’t get caught but she worried more as the minutes ticked by. She went over to the window and realised she had forgotten to hang her sash as a sign for Enid. She quickly undid it from around her waist and tied it to the window latch and dangled it outside. The wind picked it up and it whipped back and forth, a brilliant red banner waving triumphantly. Mildred felt a kind of reckless sense of victory, even though she was headed to detention. At least it would be in the coolest way possible!

Mildred searched the skies for any sign of Enid. She had to have got there now. It was unlucky she couldn’t see the broom shed from here. She felt guilty that Maud wasn’t involved and still asleep, but soon forgot when she spied someone on a broomstick with Enid’s distinctive buns, far off. Suddenly, Enid changed direction and flew towards her, so fast that Mildred thought she was in real danger of crashing into the tower. Just at the last moment, she pulled the broomstick around and came up to the window.

“Found you! You wouldn’t believe how many windows this castle has!” Enid had to shout pretty loudly to hear herself speak over the wind. She was struggling to hold the broomstick steady, and Mildred gulped as she prepared to get onto the window ledge. “Careful, Millie! I’ll get as close as I can!”

Mildred felt the world spin a little as her head stuck out of the window of the tower. It was quite far to the broomstick and it was wobbling all over the place. She was now doubting their great plan and wondered if it would have been easier to just get a teacher to lift the spell on the door. But she was committed now, and she didn’t want Enid to have put herself in danger for nothing. 

The grass and stones below looked very small. One wrong move and they could both go down. Mildred put one knee up on the window ledge, then the other, and drew her feet up so she was crouched in place.

“Enid! Move the tail closer!”

Enid shifted a little closer. It was hard to judge, but she could probably put her leg over it. “This is as close as it gets without breaking any of the tail twigs.”

“Right, here goes nothing!” Mildred said, and put one of her legs down into the air. 

Mildred wanted to close her eyes, but obviously that would be a terrible idea. On her first try, she missed the broom completely and almost lost balance of herself. Then, as she was trying again, the broomstick wobbled just out of reach. Enid managed to bring it back.

“Quick, Millie, I’m not sure I can hold it still for much longer!”

Mildred took a deep breath and decided she just had to go for it. She aimed for the tail and pushed herself off from the window ledge.

For a moment she felt as if she was flying, and then realised her leg had missed the broomstick by at least a foot. She panicked and flailed her arms forward. Her hands met branch and twig, her feet dangling underneath in the free air. Some of the twigs snapped under her grip, but a solid arm grabbed her elbow. After a few harrowing moments, together, Enid and Mildred managed to heave her onto the broomstick, without losing too much of the tail. Mildred hugged Enid tightly.

“This isn’t the time to say it,” said Mildred, “but I think it would’ve been more sensible if you’d just flown in through my window.”

Enid burst into hysterics. “Now you sound like Maud!”

Mildred joined in laughing. “Someone’s got to be sensible when you’re around!”

The two girls sailed through the air, amazed at the beauty of the castle and the landscape. Mildred was tempted to suggest that they circle the grounds once more, but she was already probably late for her detention with H.B.

* * *

A knock came at the door, breaking the blissful silence. Hecate had not exactly had the morning she had intended; she had, in fact, only managed to rouse herself from sleep barely twenty minutes prior, which was not only highly irregular but also extremely embarrassing. Her night-time patrol of the dormitory wings extended into the early hours of the morning, and the Brief Yet Restorative Sleep potion she had been taking—perhaps a few too many weeks in a row—failed to have the expected effect. The combination of sleep potions and Wide Awake potions also had the unfortunate effect of having a highly negative impact on one’s mood. 

“Late,” said Hecate in a clipped tone, making a mark on the detention report sheet as the sheepish Mildred Hubble shuffled into the room, her pinafore, stockings, and boots covered in mud. Her hair, which ordinarily looked dishevelled and threatening to fly out of its plaits, was actively making a bid for freedom. “Why, Mildred Hubble, do you look like you have fallen through a hedge backwards? And where, pray tell, is your house sash?”

Hecate arched an eyebrow as Mildred gormlessly looked over herself, as if noticing for the first time she had not put on her house sash. “I can explain, Miss Hardbroom.”

“Do go on,” Hecate said coolly, anticipating the string of excuses that had become Mildred’s custom, “and be mindful that I will know if you are not being entirely truthful.” Hecate tapped a crystal orb on her desk, swirling with blue-grey nebulae. “The Truth-Seeing Orb will turn red should you fabricate any part of your story.”

“Well the thing is, when I woke up this morning, the door wouldn’t open. I think it was sealed by some sort of spell. So I messaged Enid and we ended up flying me out through the window. And the mud is because we sort of— crashed.”

Hecate turned a sharp eye towards Mildred at the last. “Neither of you is injured, I trust.”

“No, Miss Hardbroom.”

“It remains a mystery to me why you did not simply inform a teacher. That would have been the most sensible course of action, and yet… you thought it necessary to stage a foolish caper instead.”

“I didn’t want to get anyone in trouble—”

“—and inveigling your classmate into flying a broomstick up to your window, putting you both at incredible risk, when neither of you is a proficient flyer, is your idea of something that would not get anyone into trouble?”

Mildred said nothing. She was staring at the floor, guiltily flicking the end of one of her plaits in her lap.

“So. You are out of uniform, late to detention, and used a broomstick in an unsanctioned manner without supervision before passing your Broomstick Proficiency Certificate examination.”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom.”

Hecate let the scratching of her quill to be the only sound in the room for a few minutes while she recorded Mildred’s infractions on the report.

“And now for the matter at hand, Miss Hubble. You were found out of bed after curfew, at precisely nineteen minutes past midnight, holding potions supplies. Explain.”

Mildred took a deep breath. Hecate watched her carefully; it seemed that the girl had shrunk in on herself a little.

“Well, it all started when Ethel Hallow stole Maud’s potions ingredients—

“—indeed?” Hecate interjected, eyes wide with indignation. “That is a grave accusation to make of your classmate.”

“It’s true, Miss Hardbroom. And the Truth-Seeing Orb isn’t turning red,” Mildred pointed out, looking brighter.

Hecate breathed out through her long nose in exasperation. “The Truth-Seeing Orb only detects whether you yourself believe that you are telling the truth. You honestly believe Ethel to have—” here Hecate paused, barely able to countenance the allegations levelled against her star pupil “—stolen from Maud Spellbody, and thus the Orb does not show you to be a liar because you are not lying about your belief. The Orb would only reveal if this was a falsehood should Ethel herself confirm or deny it. Continue.”

Mildred was agog for a moment, before resuming. “Right, so, Ethel stole Maud’s potions ingredients, but Maud needs those for her Autumn Equinox project. So… Maud doesn’t know this, but I switched potions bags with her so she could have mine. But then I didn’t have any potions ingredients, so I— tried to cast a replication spell.”

“A challenging spell for a young witch of your abilities,” Hecate noted in an ominous tone, eyes raising from the report to pierce Mildred’s.

“Yeah, it didn’t work,” said Mildred glumly. “Basically it set everything on fire. So I wanted to get back the potions supplies before Maud noticed her potions bag has my name on it rather than hers and switch them back.”

“While your actions may have been well-intended, the fact remains that you broke school rules. You understand the gravity of the situation, Mildred?”

Mildred bowed her head. She looked as though she were close to tears. “Am I being expelled?”

Hecate blinked in surprise. “Gracious no, girl. Your worst infractions were ironically made today when you and Enid Nightshade illegally flew a broomstick up to the tower and put both your lives in danger.”

“But I stole—”

“Were you aware that students may replenish their potions supplies when they run out?” Hecate said with a slight smirk in her eyes at Mildred’s confusion. “Although admittedly nineteen minutes past midnight is not the ideal time.”

“N—no, Miss Hardbroom. But then why would Ethel—”

Hecate tapped a long, pointed fingernail on the desk to interrupt the girl. “That is precisely why I find your story so implausible, Mildred. Ethel would know that she could acquire the ingredients she needed from the supply cupboard, since I know she has read the Student Handbook.”

“It’s because Ethel wants to do the same spell as Maud, and she doesn’t want Maud to be able to do the spell.”

Hecate’s eyes bored into Mildred, willing her to stop talking, unable at this moment to contend with whatever harebrained scheme the girl obviously thought was going on. “I will investigate this separately with Ethel. In the meantime, you will be in detention for the next three evenings at 6pm sharp, here with me in my office, at which time I will set you an essay on a topic of my choice.” 

Hecate looked down over the report, embellishing where she had abbreviated, and filling in the sanctions she had assigned in this particular case. The girl had not moved from her place, and was uneasily peering about the room, evidently in some kind of distress over the large spider in the bell jar to Hecate’s left. 

“Well? Why are you still here, Mildred?” Hecate said sharply, and Mildred immediately scrabbled to her feet with a scraping of wood against the floor, before shuffling out. Hecate waited for the sound of door closing. When it did not, she whipped her hand towards it without looking up, and it slammed itself shut.

* * *

Almost as soon as the door had slammed shut, another tentative knock tapped against the door. Irritably, Hecate swished her hand and it flung open, startling the newcomer. Squinting her eyes against the light of the comparatively bright corridor, Hecate anticipated yet another student.

“Come in, then. Time is marching ever onward while you girls make me wait for you to make your _constant_ requests,” she hissed through her teeth. The lack of tea before facing Mildred Hubble was enough of a misery by itself without every scatter-brained urchin in the school preventing her from being able to savour the rejuvenating effects of the sound of crystal-clear British water from the valleys pouring over the exquisite blend of tea leaves from one of the caddies in her chambers. They had to be kept far away from the staff room, and particularly Dimity Drill, who once confessed to Hecate that she couldn’t tell the difference between PG Tips and loose leaf once she’d added all the milk and sugar, at which point Hecate had done all in her power not to make an appalled face and promptly rescued her precious little boxes from communal usage. Gwendolyn Bat had also been drinking far too much of it, since she apparently needed to be constantly wired on caffeine to stay awake enough to teach a lesson.

“P-pardon, Miss Hardbroom,” came the voice. The clear, clipped accent was not one that she could say she recognised immediately, until the person left the doorway, hurried and gracelessly, and her spectacles flashed in the backlight from the door as she closed it.

“Miss Nightscribe,” Hecate said, slightly muted, and stood up from her desk. It was emphatically not a student, but that new librarian Ada and she had interviewed over the summer break. Morgana, who had been haughtily licking her paw, instead curiously approached the person for a closer inspection. Hecate greeted her formally. “Well met. I apologise for the manner in which I addressed you. I incorrectly assumed you were yet another student who was interrupting me before my morning tea.”

Miss Nightscribe, now more visible, could be identified by her somewhat scraggly mouse-brown hair that hung over and around her ears every which way, a neat pair of silver half-moon glasses, and her nervous little nose. Hecate was scandalised when she noticed that Miss Nightscribe was wearing a pair of what looked like _dungarees_ in a shade of dark orange over a pilled and worn grey jumper, whose loose neckline had a strand of loose yarn dangling from a hole that was threatening to unravel the entire thing. She looked positively terrified of Hecate, and a few of the dusty tomes piled in her arms slid down her body and onto the floor.

“I’m ever so sorry, Miss Hardbroom,” she said, stopping to pick them up. Hecate watched as the young witch squatted down and collected the valuable and ancient works from their undignified position, pages ruffled on the uncarpeted bare stone floor. One of Hecate’s concerns when they hired her was that she appeared so youthful, but she had come with such a spectacular recommendation from an old friend of Miss Bat’s from one of the magical libraries in Cambridge, that she and Miss Cackle had been persuaded that she was the best witch for the job of taking over the curation and management of the school library.

“Please take a seat, Miss Nightscribe,” Hecate said, valiantly attempting to ignore the potential damage to the historical works.

“It’s Mattie, Miss Hardbroom,” Miss Nightscribe gave a small smile, while accepting the chair that Mildred had been sitting in before.

“Perhaps— not to embarrass you, Miss Nightscribe, but here at Cackle’s Academy for Witches we like to maintain a certain level of _professionalism_.” Hecate glanced pointedly over Miss Nightscribe’s shabby hair and clothing. “I hope you don’t mind me mentioning it, but a change in your presentation might help to distinguish you more from the students. You may have heard that I can be a little bit of a stickler for the rules. Maintaining that distinction is vital for commanding respect, I find.”

“Oh, I did, er— hear that. I’ll sort something out by Monday,” Miss Nightscribe said, evidently straining to disguise the hurt from her voice but failing.

“And the purpose of your visit today?” Hecate asked, regretting how rude she was coming across—but all the same, this was growing to be a rather awkward conversation.

Miss Nightscribe raised her eyebrows and peered over her spectacles at Miss Hardbroom, and with a surprising amount of pith for one who had seemed so sweet and anxious, returned, “the Headmistress asked me to bring you these books you ordered,” she indicated to the pile of books she had been carrying, “and also this.” With her last, she extended her fingers, and what she recognised as Miss Cackle’s white and pink floral tea set appeared on a silver service tray in her hands. “Since she knew you would be wanting for a good pot of tea.”

Hecate blinked, wide-eyed, as Miss Nightscribe dropped the tray unceremoniously on her desk and caused the little flower in a small stoneware vase in the centre of the tray to quaver. 

“I won’t make the mistake of appearing _unprofessional_ again, Miss Hardbroom,” Miss Nightscribe shot frostily over her shoulder as she went to leave.

“Miss Nightscribe—” Hecate called out, but Miss Nightscribe had transferred directly out of her office. 

Hecate stood, feeling positively foolish that guilt had commandeered her senses over how much she seemed to have offended that scruffy new librarian, and then regarded the tea tray. The tea pot and cups upside-down on their saucers were familiar, as were the milk jug and superfluous sugar bowl, but the vase was unlike and did not match the floral tea set. She uttered an ownership spell over it, to reveal the name _Mattie Nightscribe_. The flower resting on its lip was a full and pure white gardenia.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies this took such a long time! I have been anxious about posting this. It's more of a chapter 1.5 really, but there we have it. I'm going to post the next chapter immediately after since I have them both ready.
> 
> Thank you ever so much if you read this!
> 
> Heathcliff  
@heathtrash on tumblr


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hecate anticipates the upcoming reunion with Pippa, as the heads of the four schools come together to work out the logistics of the Autumn Equinox.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “She was young, poised and beautiful, and I was none of these things.”  
Sylvia Townsend Warner, _I’ll Stand By You_

Monday arrived, and with it the satisfying regimented structure that brought such gratification to one Hecate Hardbroom. On the weekends, girls—and apparently, staff—dropped by at all hours, interrupting what should have been productive finalisation of the mapping out of the festival area, which would take place outdoors in the grounds.

Even though her Saturday morning had been spent in some distraction over her encounter with Miss Nightscribe’s tatty appearance and awkward manner—both of their awkward manners, if Hecate was being completely candid—she felt remorse over the negative impression she had had on a member of staff who would hopefully prove to be a valuable asset to the school and Hecate’s private studies.

Hecate gathered the books to her chest. The young librarian had done well in sourcing them. On one level, this _may_ have been Hecate’s test for whether the newest member of staff could handle complicated requests, as she would indubitably have to call upon her to research the locations of some manuscripts currently in libraries that Hecate could not attend in person, for delicate reasons. Other than dropping the books, which was unfortunate, Miss Nightscribe had proven herself thus far to be an adequate librarian.

Hecate transferred into the library, directly next to the borrowing desk, where Miss Nightscribe was sitting.

“I thought I should—” Hecate had begun, but stopped in her thoughts as she took in the sight of the librarian. Her hair, which had looked incredibly dishevelled on Saturday, had been cropped above the ears and tapered very short in the nape and around her ears, and had a natural lustrous wave to it that had been undetectable when it had been grown out. She was also wearing a freshly starched, high-collared shirt with a bit of black lace tied like a cravat, under a subtle two-toned grey plaid waistcoat and matching trousers.

“—return these in person,” finished Hecate, overcome by the dramatic shift from the other day. “I see you took my suggestions to heart. You look very appropriate.”

“You’ve already read them?” Miss Nightscribe visibly blushed under her half-moon spectacles, which reassured Hecate that they had not simply had a librarian transplant, and that this was indeed, the same Mattie Nightscribe she had met with on Saturday. “And yes— I’m so embarrassed about that. Half of my luggage had actually been lost for some time because my mentor at Cambridge had accidentally sent it to Camelot’s rather than Cackle’s when she coughed during the spell casting. I’m normally quite put together.”

“To answer your question, I am a fast reader,” Hecate replied, and then gave the young librarian an approving look that did not quite reach a smile. “And I expect this standard to be kept up throughout the school year, Miss Nightscribe. I daresay Miss Bat has some frocks that would fit your size but I think they might not be your style.”

Miss Nightscribe gave a kind of subdued laugh as she put the last of the books in a magical safe behind the desk. Hecate was surprised her sense of humour had translated even though her delivery was in her usual deadpan drawl.

“Now I should remind you we are due in a meeting at Miss Cackle’s office,” Hecate said, giving Miss Nightscribe a side-eye glance with renewed interest over the positive changes she had made.

“Isn’t it a little early—”

Hecate twisted her hand, and felt the rush of the transference spell dissolving her and Miss Nightscribe and re-constituting them outside Miss Cackle’s office. Miss Nightscribe steadied herself on the wall, but Hecate paid her no heed, instead distracted by movement ahead.

“Ethel?” Hecate called down the hallway, seeing the girl’s long blonde hair and purple sash neatly swinging away from where she was stood. Ethel stopped still, turning, and approached her teacher and the librarian, a difficult expression to read on her face.

“Miss Hardbroom,” Ethel said, folding her hands behind her back. She nodded also to the librarian. “Miss Nightscribe. Thank you _ever_ so much for your _invaluable_ help last week. You’re really the best librarian we’ve had in years, my older sister Esmerelda Hallow says.”

Hecate stood tall, and crossed her arms while looking down at Ethel, speaking over the stammering Miss Nightscribe by her side. “I know for a fact you are meant to be in Chanting with Miss Bat.”

“I am,” Ethel said with a little casual laugh. “I mean, I was. I’ve just had permission from her to attend to my Mabon project. It needs regular attention.”

“Is that so,” Hecate said. “I have been meaning to consult with you over a matter concerning Mildred Hubble.”

“Oh? What’s she done this time?” Ethel sneered, lifting her nose in contempt. 

Hecate eyed the girl scrupulously. Ethel Hallow was bright, but unlike her older sister Esmerelda, seemed to care too much about what others thought of her. It was, in Hecate’s view, a sign of weakness. 

“Be at my office during your lunch hour.”

Ethel gave what she thought was a knowing smile and gave an enthusiastic, “Yes, Miss Hardbroom,” before turning on her heel and walking away with altogether too much vim. Hecate knew that Ethel had grossly misinterpreted the situation. Yet there was no proof that Ethel was up to anything suspicious. 

Turning to Miss Nightscribe, Hecate said, “In my books, being early is to be on time. On time is late. And lateness is _unthinkable_.”

With that, Hecate indicated Miss Cackle’s door to Miss Nightscribe and followed her in.

* * *

Hecate Hardbroom was becoming increasingly aware that the end of this week would bring the heads of Miss Pentangle’s, Miss Amethyst’s, and Moonridge High, to Cackle’s Academy for an inter-school meeting on the organisation and finalising the locations of all the students’ projects that were to be showcased. Yet all Hecate could think was that Pippa Pentangle would once more be beneath the same roof as she.

During their Monday meeting, all while she and Miss Cackle had been going over the proceedings, what had been arranged, what had yet to be arranged, and so on, Hecate had been attempting to keep her head, particularly since most members of staff were present with the exception of Miss Bat, who was leading the girls in a whole-school chanting practice for the opening ceremony. Except for Miss Bat and Miss Cackle, who were both old enough that they had been teaching when Hecate had attended Cackle’s as a girl (though Ada had not been headmistress at that time), none of the staff knew about Hecate’s history there. And certainly Ada knew better than to indicate any kind of discomfort existed between her deputy head and the headmistress of Pentangle’s after the conversation they had had last week. Hecate had half-prepared for some tell—a look, a slight pause, an acknowledgement, a warning—when Ada read out the name of Pippa Pentangle, but she said it as casually as any of the other names on the list, and Hecate felt the indifference as keenly as a burn.

Hecate sensed herself bristling with energy and had to force herself to focus on the meeting. Her hands were on the pocket watch, circling the half-hunter case. She had to repress these feelings, crush them down again, if she were to adequately perform her duties, if she were to successfully hold her own in front of Pippa Pentangle, if she were ever to face her again after all Hecate had done.

“—And of course, we will dine with the other heads on Sunday evening, at a formal event. Any and all of you are most welcome to join, as I’m sure you would love to see some old faces and new.”

Hecate was aware of the staff around her agreeing or excusing themselves, and found herself frozen for a moment. 

“Well, Hecate?” Ada asked her, looking over her spectacles with a kindly expression.

“Indeed. Certainly, I shall be there. I thought it unnecessary to specify since I have been the chief organiser and am the most appropriate person to liaise with the other heads.”

The room fell still, as it usually did when Hecate spoke, but there was a tension in the air that felt like it lingered a little too long.

“Yes, yes,” nodded Ada, “but it also would have been perfectly acceptable had you been unavailable to attend.”

Hecate lowered her eyes to the table, the crease by her mouth deepening as she pursed her lips.

Ada’s musical voice sailed over Hecate’s silence, “Now, I believe—Miss Nightscribe, you had some research you wished to present?”

* * *

That evening saw the last of Mildred Hubble’s detentions relating to her crimes over the eventful weekend.

Hecate thought back to her interview with Ethel. She hadn’t informed Ethel about the Truth-Seeing Orb’s purpose, suspecting that were Ethel a skilled enough liar to deceive her on her intentions thus far, she would be able to fool the Orb by telling only as much as she needed to. Mildred, a simple girl, was the sort whose lies are so pathetically transparent that Hecate doubted she needed the Orb, and the knowledge of the threat of its power spared Hecate the vexation of having to listen to her faltering as she struggled to formulate an ill-conceived fabrication. Hecate watched Mildred now as she now chewed her fountain pen, evidently not feeling inspired by her essay on broomstick safety.

For Ethel, the Orb had flared once—when Hecate had asked her directly whether she had stolen from other girls’ potions ingredients. Ethel said that she had just “borrowed” what she needed from Maud for her Mabon project when the potions supply cupboard had not been restocked. Evidently she had stolen from other girls as well. Hecate’s curiosity had been piqued by this. Whatever Ethel was creating, it was highly taxing on the school’s ingredients and seemed like a potential waste if Ethel was attempting the same spell over and over again.

Ethel had also denied Mildred’s theory that she was planning to perform the same spell as Maud Spellbody, for which the Orb had remained its murky grey.

“And your project?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise, Miss Hardbroom, but I’m developing a way to communicate with dryads.”

Hecate, now checking permission slips from parents, sighed heavily. Everything Ethel had said seemed to have been in order. Hecate had allowed her to go with just a warning about not taking others’ things without permission, and advised her to possibly try not to exhaust the potions supply cabinet _quite_ so frequently, although a broomstick courier could be on hand to procure any extra ingredients should she require it. Hecate had then wished her good luck with her project, and told her it sounded fascinating. At this, Ethel had looked ecstatic, and Hecate was pleased that at least one girl would have something ambitious enough to raise the school’s reputation. The last thing she wanted was for Pippa Pentangle to believe—

“Miss Hardbroom,” Mildred’s plaintive voice interrupted her from her musings.

“Mildred.”

Mildred raised a blue-stained hand. “My fountain pen’s leaked all over my hand. Can I go and wash it off?”

Hecate gestured in the air and the seeping ink evaporated from her hand and the desk. “If you could refrain from _eating_ the poor pen, perhaps it would not leak as much. Do Miss Tapioca’s dinners not provide you with enough sustenance?”

Mildred’s mouth twisted and she looked off to one side. Hecate thought it the diplomatic answer.

* * *

Saturday had come all too soon. The week had flown by in a blur of lessons and marking and late nights. Hecate had given twelve separate girls detention and had to spend her lunch hours and evenings monitoring them in stony silence, holding back the reservoir of emotion that she was barely holding at bay.

Now, Hecate rang her hands, feeling the bones inside collapse under her tight grasp. She was in the courtyard outside the main door to the school, anticipating the arrival of the other heads of the schools that would be participating in the Mabon festival. Ada was there, mercifully. Without her to shield her from the full force of Pippa Pentangle, Hecate suspected she would not be able to confidently interact with the other honoured guests they were expecting.

It was then that Ada pointed up to the sky, and noted three figures on broomsticks soaring, some distance away, towards the mountain. Hecate took a sharp intake of breath as she recognised the posture of the much younger of the two witches. And even from this distance, her signature pink blazed against the dun rolling moorlands that surrounded the mountain upon which Cackle’s Academy’s foundations were built.

Ada fixed Hecate with a look that stirred Hecate’s insides. Inside, she was swimming through an impassible sea of all the turbulent emotions she and Pippa had shared. “Hecate, remember, you are not required to be here if that is contrary to your needs.”

“On this matter you are regrettably incorrect, Ada. I do need to be here.”

“Then I will say no more on this,” Ada said, nodding her respect to her colleague.

The three flyers landed. The wizard was unfamiliar to Hecate; he had long, stringy sideburns but a well-trimmed silver goatee, and slicked back salt-and-pepper hair above his straight, angled eyebrows. He was dressed in black and gold robes that hung a few inches above the grass, emblazoned with the crescent moon of his school, Moonridge High. She did not know much about him, other than that his name was Nicholas Evered.

The elder of the witches was Hextilda Amethyst, a witch who was so old that she shuffled forwards at a snail’s pace and had spiderwebs lacing over her hat. Under the wide brim of her hat, her translucent skin barely held together her pale bones, such that it was a mercy she was so bundled in her assortment of heavy robes and faded multicoloured shawls lest she take a fall. Professor Evered took a few steps forward before Hextilda rapped his shin with her broomstick, and in a squawk, demanded he assist her. 

But Hecate could barely focus on this exchange. Whether it was the striking pink dress or the way she had perfectly contoured her face—Pippa Pentangle was the only figure who drew her eye. She was young, poised, and beautiful, and Hecate knew she was none of these things. The elegant curve of her cheekbones, her nose so neat, her golden brown eyes full of sparkle. Beneath her pointed hat, which was also pink, an immaculate chignon contained her hair in an abundant blonde twist just off to one side of her neck, looped so that the bun resembled the petals of the most exquisite rose. 

The years had not fallen as heavily on Pippa as they had on herself. There was barely the indication of a wrinkle as she smiled at her companions and started greeting Ada with her natural charm that would put to shame even the most charming of spells.

While Hecate felt that she had wasted away into a cold, gaunt statue over the past few decades, Pippa remained as animated as the popular teenager she had been school. Hecate was usually funereal in her presentation; her hair scraped back from her face into the same tight high bun, favouring predominately black clothes that covered her from throat to thumb joint, and not an inch of ankle to be seen. Today was no different. Unlike Miss Pentangle, she hardly thought today, when they were not celebrating anything, to be the occasion to wear anything showy.

Hecate watched Miss Pentangle as she spoke earnestly to Ada; the younger woman’s voice caused a painful swelling in her throat. How she had known that voice, had savoured that sweetness, had once felt her breath whispering her name into her neck—

And then, that beautiful face turned onto hers—the shame she felt at her own ugliness! Hecate immediately went into a bow and put her hand to her forehead in the formal greeting, and felt her voice eek out of her chest unnaturally high as she managed a “Well met, Miss Pentangle.”

“Well met, Miss Hardbroom,” came the response—and was it just Hecate’s imagination, or had her voice sounded cold?—and for a moment, Hecate wondered if she could prevent herself looking directly into Pippa’s eyes if she lingered in the bow for any longer, or whether it would look bizarre if she were to—

She looked up—it had been a ridiculous idea to try to delay the inevitable—but she merely caught a flash of pink as the cloak swished behind her. Without even waiting for her to look up, Pippa had left.

Hecate crumbled. She had had a thousand things she had wanted to bite back—to _not_ say—to just look into those eyes and have them look back at her—and Pippa had moved on, sweeping by her in through the castle doors—sparing no pleasantry for the woman who had driven her away.

* * *

The high hall was a chamber at the head of the great hall, lined with glass-fronted bookcases filled with relics of old headmistresses and historical artefacts from the school. It was the most impressive space in the school grounds, with a polished wooden floor inlaid with a sunburst design, surrounded by planets and stars, reaching the very edges of the room. Ancient tapestries shrouded the walls in musty jewel-toned threads, depicting the successes of witches of antiquity who had attended the school, which were (perhaps overgenerously) inexplicably woven into witching fairy tales.

All day, Ada had taken the lead liaising with the heads while Hecate had sat in her shadow, silently writing minutes while Pippa Pentangle had gushed about all the colourful ideas she had. Pippa clashed good-naturedly with Professor Evered, who was trying to second-guess all of her decisions. It was only after Miss Amethyst, who by far had the most knowledge of the Autumnal Equinox and how it had been celebrated for generations, plucked out one of her own teeth and threw it at him, that he recoiled and shut up.

“I always keep a loose one spare for when a wizard just won’t close his flappy mouth,” Hextilda confided to Hecate in a conspiratorial tone later, winking one of her pale watery eyes. 

It was to the high hall that they had all congregated for the dinner, joined now Miss Bat, who embraced Hextilda as she passed her by at the table, and the rest of the staff, who all found their places marked with little scrolls. Hecate had positioned herself on the other end of the table to Pippa, and on the same side, so that their eyes could not meet.

Dinner was served, and a glorious spread was brought in by a catering team (Miss Tapioca was busy serving the students’ dinners). Everyone complimented the food, particularly Pippa, who, more than anyone else Hecate had ever met, seemed to allow truly genuine praise to flow off her tongue as easily as breathing. Hecate listened hollowly to her energetic speech carrying down the table about how her school was progressing and the new expansion to their stables and riding programme, jabbing peas half-heartedly with her fork.

After dinner, as the central table and chairs were vanished away and a casual dessert buffet brought out, everyone found their familiar talking companions and settled in for a spot of witches’ brew. Hecate noted that with some relief that Miss Nightscribe had managed to attach herself to Dimity Drill for the time, which was one less problem that she had to cope with. The young librarian had been pestering her frequently, much to her dismay, as she had had much more weighty subjects to be thinking about. She also half suspected Ada of sending her as a distraction to mentor instead of wallowing in a Pippa-induced stupor, which was as transparent as it was ineffective.

Dimity Drill was fascinated by Miss Amethyst, delighted by her complete lack of modesty, and was plied with witches’ brew by the cackling crone until she was swaying happily. Hextilda challenged her to a broomstick race, remarking that she didn’t need to be “Star of the Sky” to fly rings around the young witch. Hecate stood nearby, stiffly refusing waitresses as they wandered around with refreshments.

“Hecate, dear, you haven’t said a word all day,” said Hextilda accusingly, her withered fingers quavering as they made contact with the back of Hecate’s hand.

After her day of stubbornly _not_ looking at Miss Pentangle—but secretly stealing glances at her profile and hastily averting her gaze—Hecate found she could say very little, even to Hextilda, whose grandmotherly advice she had always valued. They had shared a long friendship over the years that Hecate had been at Cackle’s.

“My apologies, Miss Amethyst,” Hecate said quietly. “I am afraid my head is not quite in it, today.”

One of Hextilda’s eyes peered up at her. “Your head, or your heart?” She stabbed a finger at Hecate’s chest, and then laid her palm upon the pocket watch that hung there. “Still ticking, is it?”

“Yes, Miss Amethyst,” Hecate said.

“A good one, that. Guard it. Don’t ever forget what I told you.”

“I will not, Miss Amethyst.” Then— “Would you excuse me for a moment.”

Hecate wove her way around the guests to Ada and Professor Evered. She excused herself past Pippa—which was the second time she had spoken directly to her that day—and seized the wizard’s hand from Ada’s arm.

“Unhand her, Evered. What are you thinking?” Hecate spat, her face flushed and eyes aimed like spears at his face.

Nicholas looked transfixed at Hecate, whose glassy eyes betrayed his inebriation, before shrugging her off. “Now then, Miss Hardbroom, no need for that.” He snaked his other arm around Ada’s waist and rested it in the small of her back, resuming the suggestive tone Hecate’s keen ears had heard from across the room. “So, tell me, Ada, does it get lonely up here in your castle full of girls?”

Hecate met Ada’s wide, alarmed eyes, and knew what she had to do. She threw her hand in front of Evered’s face, shooting a violet ray into his mouth. He clutched his throat, unable to speak a word. The chamber fell still, and everyone present except the three of them froze in place, under Hecate’s spell.

“You will not address the headmistress of this school in that manner, ever again, Evered. If you do not wish for your school to be excluded from next week’s festivities, you will quietly leave the castle tonight and send a written apology posthaste to Miss Cackle, when we will consider whether you will be allowed to attend.”

Hecate waited for Nicholas to nod, desperately, before she released the spell. He transferred himself away immediately, and the air seemed clearer in his absence. Conversation fell back to normal around them, and everyone unfroze, apparently unaware of what had transpired.

“Hecate, thank you,” Ada said, her face creased with discomfort, grasping Hecate’s hands in her own as if clinging to a lifeline, before drawing her into an embrace. “I’m terribly sorry to have caused such a fuss.”

“Ada, I would hardly be performing my duty as your deputy if I did not step in to defend your honour every once in a while,” Hecate said, an expression of relief crossing her face, and she folded an arm awkwardly around Ada’s shoulders. “I know you are capable of defending yourself, but—”

“—I am beyond grateful for your aid in my time of need, Hecate,” said the older woman, patting Hecate indelicately on the back. Hecate suspected Ada had also been on the witches’ brew.

Over Ada’s shoulder, Hecate suddenly found herself staring at the tear-pinched face of Pippa Pentangle, whose golden brown eyes were flowing with question and hurt, locked onto Hecate’s. Hecate found herself mute with panic, and helpless to follow, trapped in Ada’s clinging embrace until it was too late. Pippa had gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a slightly more dramatic chapter! 
> 
> The quote I've chosen for this one is particularly heartbreaking and I hope I've captured the essence of it. You may also have noted some slight allusions to Virginia Woolf's Mrs Dalloway in the line "Pippa Pentangle would once more be beneath the same roof—beneath the same roof—as she." and this was entirely deliberate.
> 
> Hextilda is a name belonging to a real person, Hextilda of Tyndale, born around 1205. I've always loved it as a name and hoped it would come in handy one day.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading!
> 
> Heathcliff  
@heathtrash on tumblr


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Mabon festival starts, and Hecate and Pippa find themselves working together, to Hecate's sheer panic. Ethel's secretive project has a dramatic reveal.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "A thousand times in the last few days had she carefully rehearsed this scene of their meeting, making up long and elaborate speeches; assuming, in her mind, many dignified poses; and yet there she sat on the edge of a chair as though it were the Prickly Cradle."  
Radclyffe Hall, _The Well of Loneliness_
> 
> I will say there is a cw for blood/injury

Hecate felt the cool disc of her pocket watch in her hand, the chain snaking over her wrist like a fluid. It was mid-afternoon but unseasonably chill; cool dusky air had begun to sweep in through the window of her stone bedchamber and played at her nape.

She had transferred up here, to the safety of her chambers in the tower of the teachers’ wing to prepare for the official opening of the Mabon festivities this evening, but moreso for a moment away that she did not have to see Pippa flitting about, _worshipped_ by girls that Hecate herself had failed to spark a moment of interest in. Pippa _was_ simply her superior in all ways. The girls did not respond to traditional witchery in the way that all the idealism and charisma—if not the pink and glamour—of a celebrity headmistress like Pippa Pentangle delighted them. Hecate could command attention when it was required, but it was nothing to the way that the black-and-grey garbed girls rushed over when Pippa walked by, to hang enraptured onto Pippa’s every word and dangle off her sleeves.

Pippa had that irresistible air that made you want to _be_ her. Hecate, seeing her presiding over the preparation for the Mabon festivities, recalled Pippa as a Third Year when she had walked down a corridor flanked by her attractive friends, all stepping in perfect time, immaculately styled hair, always with the latest stationery from _Spellbound: Books and Magical Writing Supplies_. 

Yet that was before she had known Hecate, before she had cast her eyes over the sullen, gangly, oddly severe girl and seen—but what _had_ she seen in her?—nothing to be admired, certainly, and her attention could not have been out of any desire to climb any social ladder, since Pippa had always stood on the highest rung. It had had to have been pity, Hecate decided, examining her face in the dressing table mirror and the lines that had sunk into her skin. Degrading as it was, a small voice inside Hecate wished that Pippa still regarded her with that same pity.

Hecate had been waiting for a sign that Pippa still remembered all that had transpired between them, and the look that had been exchanged at the end of the dinner party for the heads of the other schools had given her that sign. Pippa had not only seemed to remember, but that remembrance brought forward in her such a _hatred_ that Hecate felt her body convulse with the wretchedness of it all, and a glassy tear fell onto the pocket watch enveloped in her long fingers.

Hecate turned to face the mirror, her face streaked with her tears. Lately her emotions were all at the surface, barely moments from bubbling over. Logically, it was ludicrous. These feelings belonged to the teenage Hecate Hardbroom. There was simply too great a ratio of feelings to logic, like too much potion poured into too small a cauldron to contain it. All she needed was a bigger cauldron—or a good deal less potion—or for fewer things to be added to the potion. The metaphor escaped her. 

Reaching up to wear her hair was tightly twisted into its bun, Hecate’s fingers began to loosen the pins that kept it all together, and one by one drop them in regiments onto the dresser, eventually loosening thick tendrils of hair that had been wrapped over each other. Pressure released from her scalp as she pulled the pins free and the hair pooled heavily on her shoulders, and eventually once all were free she removed the thin band holding her hair in its high topknot. Ah—except for that _one_ pin still clinging on diligently. As it was removed, a fizzle of magic dissipated, and the once sleek texture of her hair sprang into untamed waves, softening her strong features, tumbling over her body to her waist in waves and coils. Such wildness had to be magically coerced into straightness so that she could achieve the neat daily hairstyle she always adopted. She disliked this aspect of herself—her incorrigibly curling hair—and how unmanageable it was without such assistance from her Hairpins of Straightness. As she looked on the somewhat jarring contrast between her wild hair and her stoic face, within herself she felt her adherence to tradition warring with the desire to control and curtail every aspect of herself. None had ever seen her this way, since every time tradition called for a witch to _remove every dressing from her hair and let it flow freely as her power_ (which of course included spells) she had secretly defied the custom by leaving a single of her enchanted hairpins in to ensure that not a curl would be in sight. Mistress Broomhead, after all, had given them to her for this express purpose.

She took up the last pin she had put down, and discreetly tucked it under a sheaf of hair, where her hat would conceal it. The surrounding hair shivered and relaxed, until every last ringlet and wave was calmed and smooth, and her hair lengthened several inches. Traditions must be respected, Hecate sighed to herself as she passed a comb through the straightened hair somewhat needlessly, but some allowances must be made where such traditions contravened with her duties as an educator. While she often said that vanity was unbecoming in a witch, a witch letting her hair down was part of a specific cultural activity, and that was simply impractical for her without a magical solution. It had nothing to do with vanity—quite the opposite—the curls would certainly attract more attention to herself than her magically straightened hair would, and indubitably change the girls’ view of her as their teacher. Truth be told, were it not for Hecate’s duty to the craft, she would never let her hair free at all. And it certainly had _nothing at all, whatsoever_ to do with Pippa Pentangle. 

She stood and went to the window, her silky hair billowing around herself in the lofty breeze that bombarded the castle at this level, and the distant glimmer of fires being lit sparked her into action that she must return to see the opening of the festival. Hecate raised her long-taloned hand before her, ready to transfer—but to her horror a tremor of weakness in her wrist was causing it to shake uncontrollably before her. She knew that when she materialised in the festival area, she would have to face Pippa Pentangle again. She swallowed, pursed her lips together, and with a twist of her hand, vanished from the chamber.

* * *

All week the girls had been sent out in small groups to harvest the fruits of the season past, primarily from the remains of the ancient orchards that had been allowed to grow wild at the foot of the mountain upon which Cackle’s Academy was perched. These were to be displayed on the Mabon altar, which the girls had by now brought up, and the altar was overflowing with the generous bounty that the other schools had brought as well.

Four schools it was still to be, for Ada had accepted the apology sent by Moonridge High’s headmaster, Professor Nicholas Evered—although Hecate thought it would have been far more prudent to expel him from the festivities entirely on account of his _blatant_ disregard for Ada’s comfort and due to a part of the wording of the apology she felt was not only insufficient to excuse the crime of which he was _unquestionably_ guilty, but also implicated Ada in the guilt—on the proviso that he take a more passive role in the proceedings and allow his deputy to take the lead. Hecate begrudgingly went along with her headmistress’s wishes, even though she had been all too generous to the brute who had dared lay a hand on her without her permission.

Hecate cast her watchful eyes around at the four quadrants formed from tents and pavilions that surrounded the main altar, and at each corner, each of the four schools was represented with spaces dedicated to the projects that the students had created for the celebration of the equinox. Further north was a communal space where all of the schools could enjoy live entertainment in the form of chanting, broomstick displays, dramatical productions, and spellworks displays, as well as food and refreshments for all. To the south was a reflection area, where Hextilda Amethyst had the task of leading the rituals, in a more spiritually nourishing quietness. Had Hecate had her way, she would have been all too happy to stay in the reflection area and not left, but Ada had insisted that she take somewhat of an active role, since she was most able to take command, and the entertainment segment where spirits were high was where disruption was _most_ likely to occur.

Hecate transferred herself to where the Cackle’s Mabon projects were on display, surveying the various art projects with some querulous eyerolls—this was a _magic_ academy, so some vague indication of _magic_ would have been preferable. There were some rather inventive uses of potions that caught her eye, but also some unfortunate repetition of ideas—by the fourth enchanted broomstick mobile, She suspected that there had been some copying of work. 

Presently, just as inspecting the Mabon projects had grown all too tiresome, Hecate caught sight of the bright pink robes of Miss Pentangle, her arm held aloft, in the Pentangle’s quadrant. While a sickening sensation churned in her stomach, Hecate could not help but watch what Miss Pentangle was doing, as a magnificent barn owl swooped down from an impressive height to snatch a morsel of food from her outstretched hand. The assembled mass of students and teachers applauded and laughed while the owl performed a number of tasks and some practical jokes on some sporting members of staff, including Miss Drill, who made a comical show of looking around for the owl while he balanced one-footed on her head.

“A big hand to Mr Perky Pentangle!” Pippa’s magically projected voice cut through the rising sound of whoops and cheers. “Our very own beloved mascot at Pentangle’s Academy.”

Hecate’s eyebrow quirked up from her safe distance away from the display as an older student with a falconry glove took possession of Mr Perky Pentangle from Pippa, relieved she had not been required to participate in such a ludicrous spectacle. Cackle’s would never have a _mascot_, and certainly not one with a name like _Mr Perky_.

“Perhaps we should get a mascot to boost recruitment,” said the voice of Ada at Hecate’s elbow. Hecate started slightly as she had not realised Ada had joined her. The headmistress was peering through her glasses at the display over in the Pentangle’s Academy corner of the encampment, which was quite a bit more popular than the Cackle’s corner. 

“Certainly not,” Hecate forced through her teeth. “An established and reputable place of learning such as Cackle’s Academy hardly needs to gain students through cheap japery and parlour tricks. Those who would be attracted to such base entertainment would hardly be suited to an education in the hallowed halls of this castle.”

“Hmm, you may be right, Hecate. I suspect Miss Pentangle adopted Mr Perky as a pet since she still has her cat familiar from her days at Cackle’s. With an owl pet she would have more in common with her students.”

“That seems a likely explanation,” Hecate admitted, folding her arms. “All the same, perhaps I had better go over and discreetly remind Miss Pentangle that this area is to be kept—”

Ada interrupted her, “—no need, Hecate. It seems as if she is coming this way.”

To Hecate’s alarm, the crowd was indeed parting and the pink-clad headmistress, smile fixed on her face, was marching directly over to where she was standing with Miss Cackle. Hecate self-consciously adjusted her free-flowing hair to lie over her shoulder, immediately regretting her decision as she felt this must betray a certain amount of affectation. 

“Well met, Miss Hardbroom, Miss Cackle,” Pippa said, hand to her forehead. As Hecate and Ada returned the gesture, Hecate found her eyes transfixed by the gentle wave of honey-blonde hair that swept perfectly off her forehead and fell carelessly against her cheek. She felt at the same time embarrassed by the plainness of her dead straight dark hair, and admonished at her own horrendous frivolity over her appearance. 

“Goodness, Hecate, I hardly recognised you,” Pippa said, eyes wide and teeth showing as she continued smiling. “Your hair’s got so long.”

“Has it,” Hecate said, panic rising in her throat as she tried to process Miss Pentangle’s use of her first name, and had noted her physical appearance—but moreover that she had been mentally comparing her to how she remembered her in her youth. Of course, Pippa had never seen her with her hair in its—she mentally took a deep breath—natural state. Not even when they were girls had Hecate let slip the secret of her real hair texture, since Pippa had not even known she existed before their second or third year, by which point Hecate had already begun her instruction with Mistress Broomhead.

“Yes—you must spend hours brushing it to keep it from getting tangled,” Pippa said, and her arm twitched as if she had thought to reach out and take a handful of Hecate’s hair, but diplomatically decided against it.

Hecate’s eyes flicked towards Ada, trying to mentally communicate her discomfort at being made to speak about her personal hygiene routine. She was barely able to stomach the humiliation of it all. Ada looked back at her kindly, if with some sadness. “So, Miss Pentangle, you have added the feather of falconry to your cap?”

An evening sunbeam caught Pippa’s eyes, brightening her entire face. “Yes, when we got dear old Mr Perky I realised how far some basic skills could take me. Not having a familiar bond with him, I can hardly hope to control him as well as my students can their familiars, but it is so important for my young Pentangles to see their headmistress with an owl just like them.”

Hecate was still in a daze after being questioned about her hair—and it was certainly a good thing that she looked as plain as she did, or she would really have something to be flustered about—but there was something that burned hot inside her when Pippa referred to her students as _Pentangles_ that seemed to bring her back to solid ground.

“Now we offer falconry lessons as a part of the instruction for the students’ bonding with their familiars, along with horseriding. We felt as an academy that animal welfare in general was both attractive to prospective students and parents and beneficial to developing empathic young minds.”

“Horseriding?” Hecate found herself asking before she had time to consider how blunt that must have come across. She dimly recalled that Miss Pentangle had mentioned it in a meeting before, but she had been too nervous to say a word.

“Yes, it sounds peculiar, doesn’t it? For a witch to ride a horse instead of the traditional broomstick.” Pippa turned her smiling face back to Hecate, who once more felt those light brown eyes flicking down to the ends of where her hair met her hip bone. “But we found that those students who opted for the horseriding lessons in addition to their compulsory broomstick course performed better on their broomsticks than their peers who did not take up horseriding. Isn’t that interesting? Perhaps broomsticks are more like living creatures than we witches have considered before.” Pippa’s face was so animated that Hecate was almost drawn in by the enthusiastic idealism that was part of Pippa’s purview.

“Did you consider that those students may have performed better because they were simply more physically gifted to begin with, and thus more likely to elect to take a physical education option like horseriding?” Hecate said, and again at once regretting that she had dared open her mouth, feeling her analysis of the situation was perhaps a little too exacting for the casual tone that this conversation appeared to be taking.

Pippa graciously did not react negatively to this criticism, but rather, seemed to take it on board. “You were always so smart, Hecate. I’d never have thought of that. At the risk of sounding like I want to poach your deputy headmistress from right under your nose, Miss Cackle—Miss Hardbroom, you wouldn’t consider coming to consult on my new proposals to the witching curriculum?

“I cannot leave Cackle’s,” Hecate said simply, with an accidental heaviness that she feared made her double meaning all too clear.

“Of course not,” Pippa said quickly, waving her hands in the air before her. “It was a silly idea. Of course—you have so many duties to Miss Cackle as deputy here to take a day off to do more work for me. But perhaps you’d consider writing?” A hopeful lilt lifted the end of her phrase in a way that Hecate felt her position with Pippa had dramatically altered since their last meeting, but she could not detect why that was. Perhaps it was the forced niceties in front of Ada, or possibly due to the fact that they were to work together later. Indeed, Pippa was merely attempting to return to civility with Hecate, with her empty offers and her backing down all too respectfully.

Hecate found herself nodding in response, if only to stare down at the ground instead of meeting Pippa’s eyes again. She did not wish to flat out refuse—for reasons of civility, certainly. 

“Well, shall we proceed to the drama tent? We have so many amateur dramatics to oversee. I’ve already taken a peek at the costumes—I believe between the four of our schools we’re to have _five_ different dragons. Perhaps we should hold a dragon costume competition?”

“What a delightful idea,” Ada chimed in. “Now Miss Hardbroom, Miss Pentangle, if you’ll excuse me. I hope you ladies get on well in the drama tent. I have the privilege of being able to watch this one. Good luck!”

Hecate stood somewhat awkwardly with Pippa, staring at the retreating form of her headmistress, unsure where to put her hands and settling for folding them behind her. But she felt like at least some of the awkwardness had passed—possibly—which was certainly more tolerable than the last time they had crossed paths. Perhaps it was a positive thing that they had been set to work together in the drama tent.

“You know, I’m glad you and Ada make such a great team,” Pippa said, with a smile that did not quite reach her usually warm brown eyes.

Hecate paused for a moment at the odd statement. “Is there no one you can trust at your school? No one you are close to?”

“Oh no,” Pippa laughed, and with a twist in her heart, Hecate noted again that there was something absent from her tone. “I’ve not had someone that close for a while. My staff are all great, really, but they just see me as Headmistress. Which, you know, is the most professional option I suppose.”

Hecate winced. She and Ada _did_ have a professional enough relationship. One could hardly work with Ada Cackle for twenty-odd years and _not_ experience her acts of physical affection, and Hecate told Pippa as much.

“Of course,” Pippa returned, with a shrug. “I don’t blame her for wanting to keep you close.”

“We had really ought to be heading towards the drama tent,” Hecate said, eager to stop this enquiry into her and Ada’s relationship. She set off at a brisk pace, trying not to let her eyes betray the panic she felt over how close they had been standing.

* * *

The series of short plays that the students from all four schools had prepared started off without a hitch—or well, with as much hitch as could be expected in school drama productions. Pippa sat perched on a high stool behind a screen on one side of the makeshift stage with a stack of scripts as the prompt, whispering helpful reminders when the girls forgot their lines. On the other side, the Fifth Year drama prefect who was acting as stage manager chivied girls on at their cues. Hecate stood by her for a while, eyes fixed on Pippa in the shadow—the curve of her jawline as she bent her head to the page of scripts, her hands as she turned the pages—until Pippa noticed and Hecate swept away.

Hecate’s duty was mostly to monitor “backstage”, which was really just a spread of grass behind the embroidered curtain that formed the back of the stage. She was relieved not to have to handle the main area of the vast tent full of rows of chairs and benches seating several hundred squealing students. However, it was a bit of an organisation nightmare, with clusters of pupils sat on the ground whispering frantically and panicking about their upcoming scenes, while those up next dashed about in varying states of colourful nylon costumes, accidentally stepping on fingers and trying to locate misplaced props until Hecate had suggested putting the props in some conjured cardboard boxes labelled for each play. Someone still had to borrow a wooden sword from another group as theirs had gone walkabout—most likely it had been stolen and would turn up later in the fist of a troublemaker playing at swordfighting without the imagination to wield it with proper form—but with Hecate’s suggestions of how to organise everything behind-the-scenes, some semblance of sanity was restored.

All the while, however, Hecate’s thoughts strayed to the woman just behind the curtain, trying not to imagine the way that she was sitting with one foot curled underneath the stool on the footrest—or the way her kind voice would cut into the awkward pauses with the line prompt, her tone filled with whispered encouragement.

* * *

When the final piece was over, the groups went up a few at a time to bow to an appreciative audience, when the Fifth Year drama prefect read out their names. Hecate monitored which groups were going up, ensuring they went up in the correct order and remained behind the screens so that the operation went as smoothly as possible.

Finally, there were no more students due to go on. The Fifth Year prefect, however, had one last announcement. “And last but not least, let’s thank Miss Bat for the music—” a polite applause ensued as Miss Bat stood up from her place at the piano to the side of the stage, glowing with a sweet smile and bowing her gratitude to the stage and audience “—and Miss Pentangle and Miss Hardbroom, for helping out backstage and making sure we got all our lines and cues and props right.”

Hecate’s eyes nearly popped out of her head when she heard her name called on stage, momentarily paralysed as Pippa glided out of the shadows on the other side from her into the centre of the stage with all the glamour of a pop star, and beckoned eagerly to her to join her in the limelight. Hecate, pushed from behind by a few of the actors, shuffled reluctantly into the middle and took her place beside Pippa, blinking, eyes narrowed against the bright stage lights.

Something brushed against her sleeve and tenderly tickled against her palm. Soft, delicate fingers folded over hers. A warmth spread through her icy hand; the act felt so intimate that Hecate felt it as painfully as a burn from a hot cauldron. _Pippa Pentangle was holding her hand._ The thought spiralled in her head until she was dizzy. She led them in a bow to the cheering from the crowd. Hecate stood, numb, for a few seconds, before pulling her hand out of the embrace and clasping it in her other, and then hurrying backstage while Pippa started to congratulate the Fifth Year and say some parting words.

Hecate, blocking out the sound of Pippa’s voice still addressing the audience, found peace in giving orders for the clearing away of the stage paraphernalia in all its rainbow garishness, categorising them by box. She gave smarting commands to those who were still rushing about in costume in a adrenaline-induced delirium to _please_ return the costumes to their rightful places so they could be stored safely. Hecate noted, however, that those defying her were exclusively from the _other_ schools, and the threat of detention meant very little to them coming from a teacher at Cackle’s. Sighing, she began transferring the collected Cackle’s costumes and props to the drama store cupboard with several flicks of her fingers. On the last, Pippa’s hand still felt present on hers, and her magic faltered for a moment. Hecate looked behind her sharply to ensure no one had noticed this fresh mortification.

As Hecate was finishing dismissing the students group by group, Ada appeared at the curtain, her face wrinkled in delight at the sight of the hidden magic of the behind-the-scenes.

“Come along, now, Hecate—we don’t want to miss the spellworks display, do we? It’s due to begin shortly.”

“Miss Cackle, I should like to attend Miss Amethyst in the reflection area—”

“—Hecate, the Fourth Years have put a great deal of work into their display. I assure you it will only be a few minutes long at the most, and then I shall release you to oversee whichever area you wish.”

“Yes, Headmistress. You are completely correct,” Hecate replied, relief spreading through her stiff shoulders at the thought that soon she would be able to take a moment for herself away from the crowds, which she so desperately needed after being dragged onstage in front of an audience of a few hundred.

Darkness had fallen when they went out through the back of the tent, and everywhere little tongues of flame bobbed like wisps in the gathering night as everyone had begun to light magical torches. Hecate and Ada made their way over to the spellworks display, funnelling students towards the display as they went, and sending them ahead to join the crowd. It was really quite cold by now, and Ada took out from her robe pockets a pair of thick knitted woollen mittens with black cats on the backs in stranded colourwork. 

Ada and Hecate each took their place at the front, with Hecate stalking along the front edge of the crowd, drawing an invisible line with her hands to mark the safe distance from the Fourth Year spellworks casters. A few of the students not in Cackle’s uniforms giggled as the potions mistress stood ramrod straight before them, long hair floating around her in the slight breeze. Hecate stared at them with piercing eyes, before noticing a flash of silver paint somewhere in the crowd and pointed her hand in a claw towards it. Immediately, the pilfered wooden sword rose into the air high above grasping hands and sailed over to Hecate’s free hand.

“I believe this belongs to Pentangle’s drama department,” Hecate said, threat lurking in her voice. She held it by the hilt, arms folded behind her back, and turned on her heel back to where the other teachers were congregating as the Fourth Years lined up to commence the display. She could return the sword to Pippa when she next saw her—it was certain to amuse her, and Hecate hoped would help her forget her awkwardness on stage earlier when Pippa had taken her hand in her own.

The girl in the centre stepped forwards and shot a bolt of magic into the air that exploded into the badge of Cackle’s Academy, a cat sitting in the crook of a crescent moon. Then the other girls began casting their spells high into the air, zooming off like rockets and illuminating the whole sky. 

A presence pricked at the back of Hecate’s neck, and she turned to see the disarmingly attractive face of Pippa Pentangle approaching, having made her way around the crowds to the front, the steam from the mug of mulled cider in her hands licking through the air, its vapour shimmering with the colours in the sky.

“Hecate, your girls have made an excellent effort,” Pippa said, throwing her head back to take in the splashes of stars erupting into the sky.

“Some a great deal more than others, it would seem,” Hecate gave a smirk as she turned her mind from the spellworks display to muse on the sad and silent collection of Ordinary plastic toys that Mildred Hubble had failed to animate—or whatever it was that she had attempted to do to them.

“Why do you do that?” Pippa’s voice had an unusually sharp edge to it, and she lowered the mug from her face. 

Hecate looked back at Pippa, to see her whole expression changed. “W-what do you mean?”

Pippa’s forehead had a little crease in it, which always used to be the first sign that she was annoyed. “Why do you put your students down like that?”

“Well, what I meant was,” Hecate cleared her throat, feeling her cocksure attitude shrivelling up inside like a rapidly deflating balloon. “That some of my girls gravitate towards disaster. I do not tolerate mistakes in my classroom. It shows a lack of respect for the Code.”

“And what do you do when one of your girls makes a mistake in the classroom?” Pippa drew her cloak closer around her against the cold night air.

“It entirely depends on the infraction. Detention, lines, or a trip to either Miss Cackle’s office or mine to remind the girls of their solemn duty as young novitiates of the Craft.”

“That’s the problem, Hecate,” Pippa said, her eyes glistening with tears of frustration in the dancing light from the spellworks. “You see mistakes and errors as things to be punished. One thing that we do in modern witchcraft is encourage children of all abilities, not just the successful ones. And sometimes it’s the most successful ones you have to be careful with—a high grade doesn’t necessarily mean a healthy child.”

Hecate felt as though the floor beneath her feet had begun to sink away before she realised she had started to lose her balance, and staggered back from Pippa as if she had punched her in the gut. The toy sword in her hand now felt like a feeble attempt at bridging whatever residual conflict lay between them. Hurt flashed in Pippa’s eyes that seemed to look across the decades they had been apart. 

“Why did you become an educator if not to guide your students, to care for them?” Pippa took a step closer to her, and even though she was a good five inches shorter than her, Hecate felt Pippa’s presence towering over her. “You’ve changed, Hecate. You’ve done many things, but I never took you for someone who would want to make a child _scared_ to mess up once in a while—because that’s all you’re going to accomplish when you rule with an iron fist like that.”

Hecate felt her throat close up. The woman she had felt so many things for, for so many years, was assassinating her very sense of self. The person she had been moulded to become sounded cruel coming out of Pippa’s mouth. She felt ashamed and naked before the woman she had walked away from all those years ago.

A loud cheer broke out around them, impervious to their present strife. Hecate bowed her head and turned away from Pippa as the crowds began to disperse, and could not bring herself to look back to see if Pippa was following or if she had found someone less _cruel_ to spend her time with. She would not blame her.

In the bustle to escape, Hecate recognised one of the staff from Pentangle’s who had been in charge of the lighting spells at the play—a Miss Mercy Whistlemoon—and handed her the sword. “I found a student playing with _this_. Please ensure it is returned safely before someone loses an eye.” 

With a sweep of her wrist, Hecate then transferred herself just outside the reflection area, before making her way in. The sounds of the entertainment space were at once dulled, and Hecate’s ears rang from the sudden silence. The lighting was very soft here, being only illuminated by a small fire of deep purple flames, and a perimeter of dimly green glowing mushrooms marking the limits of the area to avoid anyone straying too far and getting lost. Hecate had to wait for her eyes to adjust after the brightness of the spellworks.

Most of the students and staff had been present at the spellworks display, and only three students in a group sat huddled around the purple fire for warmth, and another girl on her own performing a fire ritual. Hextilda Amethyst, was leaning on a cane beside the single girl, sitting hunched on a wooden stool draped in heavy woollen shawls, eyes closed, humming softly out of her nose. The glow cast over her translucent skin was eerie and may have alarmed students of a more delicate persuasion. Her form was shrouded in smoke pouring out of a smouldering bundle of herbs in a small cauldron as the girl incanted solemnly over it. It was a memorial spell to a departed relative. Hecate knew at once that it had been right that when she had planned the festival that a space of quiet reflection was available, and with a shudder of guilt felt that it was perhaps the only sensitive and considerate thing she had done for her students in a while—the words of a certain blonde witch still echoing in her ears.

Taking a candle from the supply tent, Hecate knelt down in a corner of her own by one of the miniature altars, and lit it with a wave of her hand. She focused on the flame, letting its flickering light fill her mind, and began to attempt a meditation to mull over the thoughts of her encounter with Pippa Pentangle from her mind. Pippa had not necessarily been _wrong_—that was the problem. Hecate had simply never understood the needs of less able students. It was still difficult to comprehend how exactly it was that she should go about teaching without striking fear into the hearts of the girls she taught. It was all she had known, and she was merely acting in the way others had treated her.

Suddenly, Hecate heard hurried footsteps through the grass; coming towards her in the darkness was the outline of Dimity Drill. She went over to meet her, not wishing for anyone else in the reflection area to be disturbed.

Miss Drill began in a hushed voice that carried in the silence, “Miss Hardbroom—just thought you might want to know that Ethel Hallow’s gathering everyone to see her Mabon project. It sounds really exciting. No one’s sure what it is yet but it involves a little trip into the forest to the Grey Gloaming Grove. Up for it?”

“I am indeed ‘up for it’. I believe everyone else here has also heard your message,” Hecate muttered under her breath, looking over her shoulder as the group of three students stood up and came over eagerly.

“I’ll stay behind and look after any stragglers,” said Hextilda, opening a single eye, before nodding off again.

* * *

“Right, if everyone would like to follow me!” said Ethel in a high-pitched voice, her face cast in ghastly flickering light from a branch licked by green magical flames, held aloft by an awkward Miss Nightscribe. Miss Pentangle stood close by, her pink gown a dark hue in the light of the torch. Hecate avoided her line of sight as best she could while she, Dimity Drill, and the three students joined the fray.

An intrigued crowd had assembled, filtering off from the end of the spellworks display. Students from all the schools muttered amongst themselves, and Hecate caught the name of Hallow being exchanged. It filled her with pride that a student from Cackle’s should be held in such esteem—and indeed, a student who was under her own charge. Ethel was surely a student that Hecate felt she had _not_ failed. She stood up a little taller, and assisted in herding the pupils into an orderly crocodile no more than three abreast, herself taking the middle section and looking back towards Ada at the rear.

“No pushing, now,” Hecate drawled. “You will all arrive more promptly if you wait your turn in line.”

Miss Nightscribe nodded to Ethel, and swept past in front of the students in her purple robe, almost black in the darkness, heading the queue with Miss Pentangle following a little behind, ushering some excitedly whispering girls from Cackle’s along. Hecate conjured her own magical flame—a steady blue tongue, directly from her palm, barely wavering—as they proceeded towards the Grey Gloaming Grove, a short distance into the forest. She felt a sting of jealousy that Miss Pentangle was standing so near to Ethel, who was _her_ star pupil. At the very least, Miss Nightscribe was present, who, Hecate supposed, had assisted Ethel in her research for the project.

The pupils became quieter and more animated as they proceeded through the forest away from the Mabon encampment. Tree branches snarled at errant cloaks and hats as the path became narrower, and the sounds of the forest at night caused a few shudders to run through the younger pupils.

The path gave way to a clearing, in which a towering solitary tree stood before a shimmering pool, stretching fifty feet into starry sky overhead. The column of onlookers dispersed into groups that clustered around the edge of the grove, whispering and high-spirited despite the gloomy surroundings.

“Could I have your attention, please,” Ethel said, her face unable to contain the smug grin on her face, thirsty for the attention she was receiving. Hecate felt a slight sense of unease creep across her as she looked up into the shadowy boughs of the great tree. The voices died in the chill air at Ethel’s request, until—

“—look up there, the tree’s _moving_!” 

After the interruption, the students all whipped into excited muttering and gasping, pointing up at the tree. Hecate squinted and saw what the child had seen—in the pitch darkness under the canopy, branches moved of their own accord into the light from the torches of those assembled—not swayed by a breeze, but like fingers of an enormous, elongated skeletal hand.

“For my Mabon project,” she began again, her voice breathy and giddy, “I’ve decided to invent a spell that allows direct communication between witches and dryads, which as you all know, are elusive tree spirits. Witch- and wizardkind have long tried to speak with dryads but to do so requires a _lot_ of magic and time spent getting them to trust you. _My_ spell is formed around the principles of an awakening spell to bring life into the tree itself, combined with harnessing wild magic from the surroundings of the academy to make a connection across the fae realm. This way, the dryad can speak to us through the tree to which it is bound.”

Miss Pentangle and a few of the other teachers nearer the pool exchanged puzzled looks as if trying to figure out Ethel’s spell, and Hecate began to make her way over to them, slowly circling behind the students, a frown furrowing her eyebrows.

Ethel made the customary bow, and as she lowered herself, her hand to her forehead in front of the pool before the tree, Hecate noted that the entire bed of moss that surrounded the tree was withered. A dark haze quivered over it, like heat rising from metal on a hot day—only this was magic, and not good magic, at that.

Hecate’s breath caught in her chest. Her mouth went dry as she watched Ethel making her incantation, fear seizing her as she began to piece together the type of magic that Ethel had cast, together with the effect that whatever she had been doing all term had had on the grove.

Ethel finished the spell, offering into the pool a bundle of herbs. The magic leapt from the floating ritual herbs and drawing out of Ethel herself, up into the roots of the tree, which began to emit a groan.

“The dryad is awakening! Listen to it speak to us!” Ethel shouted, her voice sounding distant and dizzy with her own power.

The roots suddenly began tearing out of the ground, from deeper than anyone could fathom—long limbs wrenching out of damp earth—bark cracking like dry skin—swinging its branches over the exhilarated crowd— leaving behind craters in the centre of the grove.

Hecate cried out over the cacophony, “Ethel, that is not—” 

But Hecate could continue no further with her thought, for in a split-second decision, she transferred herself directly to Ada and Dimity Drill, whose broomstick was, as always, by her side. She met Ada’s eyes with desperation in her own. Panic arose in the students as the tree began moving in earnest towards the crowd, violent intent clear in the lashing about of its limbs.

“Ada! Get the students to safety. Retreat to the camp. This is a _Blight_, Ada—an awakened plant imbued with dark magic. I must seal it away before the curse can spread to the other trees in the grove.”

“Hecate,” Ada said, stunned by what she had heard, a look of pure fear crossing her face. “Are you sure you can you handle this?”

“I have to, Ada. Take care of the students. I will be fine.” Hecate then seized her hand upon the broomstick Dimity was holding, who relinquished it at the look in Hecate’s eyes. Ada looked distraught, as if she did not wish to let Hecate stay on her own, but Dimity took her arm and held her back from the determined potions mistress.

Hecate mounted the broom as fast as she could and kicked off from the ground, angling herself towards the Blight. It was approaching Ethel, roots and boughs writhing. Ethel was still under a trance, laughing on the ground where she had fallen, a cut across her cheek, mud staining her robes. All around, screams rose from the students as they swarmed out of the grove, tumbling over each other as they tried to get to safety. Hecate narrowed her eyes, drawing her hat down on her forehead against the wind whipping her hair about her, and chanted a spell in a low voice, trying to keep herself steady while the Blight loomed over the vulnerable form of Ethel Hallow.

A series of magical energy orbs flew from the tips of her long black nails, striking the Blight in several places. A horrible mask of a face in the bark looked up at her whizzing past it on the broomstick, and Hecate felt its attention divide for a moment from Ethel, but it continued and had her body in one of its skeletal branch-arms. She had to anger it further. 

Bending as close as she could to the broomstick while riding side-saddle, she flitted between its boughs, dropping flames from her hands upon the ossified wood. Fire immediately began to engulf huge sections of the Blight behind her, and it staggered and dropped Ethel, who rolled from its grasp face-down by the pool. 

Now was her chance—she bellowed over the Blight’s roaring pain as it struck out at her in agony, missing Dimity’s broom by inches as she summoned all the magic within her and focused it into her binding spell. She had almost completed the incantation when she saw the pink cloak of Pippa Pentangle gliding over to where Ethel lay in the dead leaves and ruptured earth where the roots had ripped from the ground.

“Stay back!” Hecate screamed at Pippa, as the Blight, enraged, crashed its way back towards the witches on the ground. At the same time, Hecate shot like an arrow towards the ground between the onslaught of the flailing branches, falling off the broomstick and falling into Pippa, pushing her prone to the ground. A searing pain struck Hecate’s body, and she gasped as she saw a wooden protrusion coming out of her own chest.

“GO!” Hecate yelled. At Pippa’s hesitation and shock at the branch that had pierced through Hecate’s body, she lifted her hand and transferred Pippa and Ethel away, and Pippa’s eyes, burning with hurt, dematerialised for a moment, before swirling back into being. Pippa held on fast to Ethel, who was unconscious, and followed Hecate’s last wish, scrambling backwards over the unsteady ground.

Hecate knew now that with the Blight connected to her physically, there was only one thing she could attempt. She began incanting a modification of the spell she had been casting before, even as the branch struck through her lifted her from the ground, tearing at her insides. Hecate let the magic burst from within her, feeling the dark magic of the Blight warring against her even as she strove to seal it away with every fibre of her being. She began channelling her pain and emotion into the spell, repeating the incantation over and over as the Blight seemed to become stronger, even with flames from Hecate’s fire spells burning so hot that she could feel the heat drawing her last strength from her body. Her strongest magic was not enough, only feeding the Blight until it swelled with her magic and fought against her with it. The dark magic pulsed through the branch that was embedded within her chest—with a momentary lapse in concentration as she took one wracked breath, Hecate suddenly felt that dark magic bleed into her body, filling her with the coldest icy touch she had ever felt. 

Fear gripped Hecate as she knew that she could only take so much dark magic before it would corrupt her completely—if not kill her from the conflict it was raging within her. There was one more option available to her. With tears flowing from her eyes and evaporating in the heat of the inferno blazing in the Blight hanging over her, she sang out one last chant in sobs of pain and fear, drawing the dark magic out of the Blight—and into herself.

The spell was appearing to work. As she felt the dark magic filling her body, battling against her own, the Blight began to lessen its hold over the tree. With the magic departing its hollowed form, the tree began to crumble into dust, extinguishing the fire as it fell. Hecate felt her knees buckle under her, no longer held up by the tree, and as the branch within her faded into nothingness, a surge of blood poured forth from her wound.

Staring up into the deep blue-black abyss of the sky, Hecate knew she was dying, her mind slowing as dark magic and her mortal wound overcame her. But even as the thought came to her, a wisp of blonde hair danced over her vision, and she felt the warmth of healing magic passing over her body. 

It was enough. Even as Pippa hushed her, Hecate uttered a spell with everything she had left, and felt the dark magic drawing up into her throat, tugging away from her limbs as if drawing cold threads through her veins, until the energy coalesced into a form and choked her as it exited through her mouth. A shimmering dark orb hung in the air over her, and she lifted her leaden arms and cast the binding spell over the dark magic, swallowing it in a faltering pale blue sphere, which soon sputtered out. Pippa threw up her own arm, pink sleeve encrusted with dirt and Hecate’s blood, and shot out the red energy of a banishment spell, which shattered the orb into a myriad of tiny fragments that floated down towards the ground, imperceivable at the moment they should have settled on the earth.

The Blight was gone. Hecate stole one last look at Pippa—that beautiful face—before slipping unconscious, safe at last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait for this one. Hopefully it'll be clear by now why this chapter was so much more involved!
> 
> The pun is definitely intended on Hairpins of Straightness and I'm SORRY. Also not sorry at all, in the slightest.
> 
> Mr Perky Pentangle is from The New Worst Witch! It's not said that he's her familiar, only that he is the school mascot and also Miss Pentangle's pet. I've extrapolated and assume that Pippa still has her cat familiar from Cackle's. (Familiars don't die. How dare you.)
> 
> I'm very tired but I'm posting this anyway before I lose my nerve!
> 
> Heathcliff  
@heathtrash on tumblr


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hecate struggles with the prospect of convalescence after her injury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Men tiliche—O! the emptiness of this house. ... I felt absolutely crushed after you had gone: I couldn't do anything: I sat there dazed and stupid. All my worries crept back and snarled at me like wolves from the dark corners of the room."  
_Violet to Vita_, July 1919

—a vaulted stone ceiling—the smell of clean, fresh linen—the soft pressure of cloth against her brow—

—arms around her body—damp earth beneath her—a blinding pain in her chest—a whirl of stars around her and the rush of cool night sky—

Hecate’s eyes snapped open and her hand went immediately to her chest. Her hand closed over—nothing. Her breath caught in her lungs and she felt as though she were drowning on dry air.

“She’s awake,” a voice said to her side. 

“Where—where is my pocket watch?”

“It’s there on the table to your side,” came Ada’s gentle tones. “I’m sorry, my dear, but we—”

Hecate heard nothing more from Ada as the rush of blood filled her ears. Sitting up now seemed like a dreadful idea, but her hands clambered over the surface of the table until they met the cold circle of metal. Her fingers closed over it and she brought it back to her chest, trembling. She clicked it open to wind it but saw that the coil had already been tightly wound.

“It is not damaged,” Hecate said, her voice breaking as the relief of the words said aloud became a reality.

“No, Hecate,” Ada said kindly, coming to her side and taking one of her bony hands in both of hers. Ada’s hands were soft, warm, sure. “I had to take it off you. You were having some violent nightmares and I thought it safer for you that it was not around your neck.”

Struggling to process this information for a moment, Hecate realised that her sense of time was incredibly muddled. If she had been having nightmares— “What day is it?”

“It’s the 24th of September. Tuesday,” the other voice said, the one that was not Ada’s.

“Who else is here?” Hecate asked Ada quietly.

“Mattie Nightscribe. She’s been helping take care of you, particularly while I’ve been covering your lessons.”

“My lessons—” In her panic and confusion, the responsibility of teaching fell on her heart like a leaden weight, but she also did not want that responsibility to fall upon anyone else.

“Don’t worry, Hecate,” Ada said, squeezing her hand. “You haven’t missed much. As soon as you’re back on your feet and feel up to it, you can return to teaching.”

“I feel fine,” Hecate lied. There was an ache gripping the base of her skull. Nothing the right potion couldn’t cure, however. She pushed herself properly upright, seeing now that she was in the ward of the hospital wing, and what felt like morning light was bathing the crisp white sheets of the other beds in diffused grey tones. A curious breeze played down her front, at which point Hecate realised that the soft flannel nightgown she was wearing was not hers and that it gaped slightly, betraying a dark, blossoming scar above her left breast. She had not realised quite the extent of the damage, nor that healing magic would fail to have erased all traces of the wound. She tugged the bed sheets over her chest up to her collar bone, shoulders stiffening, and arms feeling vulnerable without her usual full-length sleeves. 

“What is this thing I am wearing?”

“I’m sorry, Hecate, but we had to change you. Your clothing—I’m afraid to say—was rather torn in your fight with the Blight. But Miss Bat is doing her best to fix it for you. If she can’t manage, as I suspect she may not, I know a magical tailor who would be all too happy to make the repair. But the nightgown is one of Miss Nightscribe’s. I thought it would not be prudent to rifle through your personal belongings without your permission.”

Uncomfortable as she was with the prospect of sharing nightwear with Miss Nightscribe, Ada was correct in assuming that she would not wish for her privacy to have been compromised any more than was strictly necessary— but then a horrible thought took precedence in Hecate’s mind. She put her hand to her head. To her relief, her hair was still straight, but—her hand trailed over and found a low plait over her left shoulder, loose at her nape to be comfortable while sleeping. The Hairpin of Straightness was still disguised under her abundant—but mercifully straight—hair.

“Ethel— is Ethel all right?” Hecate asked, hands closing over the length of her plait.

“Yes, Ethel is safe and well. She had a nasty bump on her head, but whatever curse she had brought upon herself was swiftly cured with one of your antidote potions from the store cupboard. She should be now enjoying a lively chanting lesson. Thanks to your bravery and quick thinking, no one but you was hurt.”

As Miss Nightscribe brought over some water for Hecate to try drinking, Ada recounted the events of what happened in the grove, told from several witnesses’ accounts. She invited Hecate to corroborate the stories and tried to make sense of what had happened, in order that a full report could be sent to the Magic Council. Hecate was surprised to hear her deeds from the students’ perspectives; they made her magic sound much more dramatic and powerful than Hecate had felt it. She had been reacting from pure instinct, which, she presumed, none of them could had ever anticipated from their rigid and prudent potions mistress.

“And according to Miss Pentangle’s account, you put yourself between the Blight and Miss Hallow and suffered a wound to the chest. And you tried to transfer them both away but your magic—”

“—My magic failed. I failed.”

“Miss Pentangle did not put it that way. You were in a great deal of pain and had already spent a great deal of your magic. She was here, waiting for you to wake, but had to return to her academy. She asked me to let her know when you were awake so she could visit you. To thank you.”

Pippa. Hecate felt a ghost of pain stabbing through her chest, just as the branch had torn through her body and felt herself wince. Then a sudden heat rose to her cheeks as she noticed Miss Nightscribe perched on a bed to the side of her. 

“Miss Nightscribe, please fetch a strong headache cure from the potions supply cabinet. The ones here in the hospital wing will not do,” Hecate said. This was certainly a conversation she did not want to share with the young librarian, whose presence made her uneasy while she was in this state, to say nothing of the particular pot-pourri of emotions that Pippa Pentangle had a propensity to provoke in her. 

When Miss Nightscribe nodded her understanding and left the room, Hecate turned back to Ada, her gaze lingering on the wandering cabled pattern of her cardigan around the neckline. “Don’t,” she said softly. “Please do not invite Miss Pentangle back. There is no need. By all means, tell her I am recovered—in a few days’ time when this is all simply a bad memory for all of us. I do not wish for her to see me—like this. I know that she already has been here, but there is a difference when I am conscious and recumbent to when I am—not conscious. And Ada— there is something she left out of her account.”

Ada raised her eyebrows in question, but did not appear surprised.

“She— when she said that I put myself between the Blight and Miss Hallow, that was not wholly true. It— it was Miss Pentangle whom I was trying to spare. Ethel would not have been hit— she was already on the ground. The trajectory was towards Miss Pentangle, and I— prevented it from reaching its mark.”

“I see,” said Ada. “I understand your need for discretion here. You are the proudest woman I know, Hecate, and I would never wish to offend your dignity unless it was necessary. I will of course, follow your wishes on this. I will make sure no one sends word to Miss Pentangle. In fact, perhaps I had better follow Miss Nightscribe in case she decides to act upon her intuition.”

Ada stood up from the armchair beside Hecate’s bed. “I shan’t be long, Hecate. I expect when I leave, you will want to get out of bed and return to your own bedchambers. I know I can’t stop you, Hecate, but please at least _try_ to get some rest. You have been through a great ordeal and the last thing we want is for you to wear yourself out and lengthen your recovery time. The school isn’t completely falling apart without its potions mistress, but I expect we will begin to see a lapse in uniform standards soon enough. Ties dangling outside pinafores, top buttons undone, socks swimming around ankles, non-regulation hair ties…” 

Hecate pursed her lips to keep herself from smiling. Ada could read her like a book. She knew that the headmistress was listing those uniform infractions to tease her. It was working. She allowed her mouth to curl just a fraction, before Ada left with a “Best be off,” and with a click of her fingers, transferred away.

Hecate slipped out from under the duvet and tried to stand. Her bare feet stung as they made contact with the frozen stone floor. Her joints shook with the effort of supporting her body, but as long as she could transfer, she would not have to be able to walk anywhere in a hurry. She put a hand on her chest where the Blight had speared her. There was no pain, but the memory of it was so _present_ that in flashes she could still see it, _feel_ it—the brutality of the wound—the moment when the dark magic had bled into her body—those cold threads in her veins—seeking—malicious. Yet now it was all over, she reminded herself sternly. It would not do to keep being taken back to that moment and keep reliving it. All it would serve to do was torture her. 

The pocket watch lay against the flimsy material of the nightgown. It grounded her as she tried to bring herself back from her trauma. Focusing on the transference spell, she twisted her hand, and willed her body to respond to her magic.

* * *

In a whirl of colour, Hecate felt the spell electrifying her body with power such as she had never felt before. Her bedchambers swam before her eyes—the bookshelves seemed to lurch upwards and the ceiling shifted suddenly. Her head struck the floor with a thud, and white burning light shot through her vision. As she lay on the floor, she considered that at least her spell had worked, and that also at least she was alone where none could have witnessed her fall. 

She rolled slowly onto her hands and knees, every movement a gargantuan effort, before dragging herself to her wardrobe. Perhaps her priorities were bizarre, but there was nothing more that she wanted right now than to free herself from the nightgown. She peeled herself off the floor, dusting her knees and hands off, and leaned bodily against the wardrobe while she tried to find something comfortable to wear amongst the black garments hanging in the darkness. Hecate had very few clothes, which made the decision simple for her—a long-sleeved, high-collared blouse, and a floor-length skirt with a wide waist tie. 

Staggering with the two hangers of clothing to the bed and some underwear and stockings from a drawer, Hecate let herself fall with relief onto the mattress. Ada had been correct. She was utterly exhausted, and had never felt so helpless in her life. She briefly considered how much of an inconvenience it would be to remain in the nightgown, before reproaching herself. She would not recover any faster in an indecent slip of fabric like that, particularly if she was uncomfortable with anyone seeing her in it. 

As she cast the spell to switch her clothing, a sickening ripping sound and sharp tugging of seams against her skin alerted her that rather than dematerialising through her body, the nightgown was physically ripping away to scraps. It tore off her body with an unbridled anger that made her recoil and in a panic, she ceased the spell immediately. The remains of the nightgown drifted to the floor around her, with nothing to cover the shame she was experiencing at her own failure.

Something had happened to her magic, that much seemed clear, Hecate thought as she put on her clothing the _safe_ way, her heart fluttering too much with anxiety to feel any kind of frustration about having to physically dress herself. The other logical explanation, she mused as she wrapped the skirt ties high on her waist over the tucked-in blouse, was that she was still too weak after the battle—but whenever she had felt tired before, her magic had merely failed to succeed—sputtered out—rather than going horrendously _wrong_. 

Hecate thought back to the information Ada had relayed to her in the hospital wing, but if she was honest with herself, the memories were hazy, and reaching for them was like trying to find something at the bottom of a dark pool. As she pulled the long stockings up her thighs, it came back to her—the 24th of September. Then it was only two days after Mabon. She had not been unconscious for any abnormal length of time. Just beside her bed was a pair of comfortable navy slippers, and Hecate slipped her stockinged feet into them. Perhaps her sluggishness and unpredictable magic were due to this infernal headache that was tightening around her head, her need of nutrition, or perhaps most likely of all—tea deprivation.

The torn shreds of the nightgown still littered the floor. Hecate bent and gathered them all up—perhaps when her magic was back to normal, she could magically stitch it back together. In the meantime, she would have to hide all evidence of her magic malfunctioning. This was _temporary_. She could handle this. She put the ripped fabric into a woven basket under her bed and hoped that no one would ask her where the nightgown was—she could not bear to imagine explaining to Miss Nightscribe that she had failed to cast a simple dressing spell.

While there was nothing more Hecate desired than to collapse into her bed and sleep the rest of the day away, she knew rather than hoped that Ada would be returning soon. It was in Ada’s nature to care, and Hecate was almost invariably grateful that she did so without her having to ask. To ask would be a humiliation. She made her way to her living room, and sank into her wingback Queen Anne chair by the fire with a book. It was not long before she nestled her head into the cool, soft leather of one of the wings and found her eyelids weighted with the exhaustion of her ordeal.

* * *

A knocking woke Hecate from her slumber. She blinked several times before she registered that someone must be at her door, and tried to move her heavy limbs.

“Hecate?”

Hecate smoothed her hair and rubbed her eyes before saying, “Enter,” a lot less directly than her usual greeting. She realised her legs were tucked underneath her, and slipped them out from under herself to feel the embrace of her slippers waiting for her feet exactly where she had left them under the chair.

Ada appeared at the door and bustled in a tea tray. She smiled when she saw Hecate in the chair, and set the tray down on a side table.

“I suspected you might be after a spot of tea,” Ada said.

“You suspected correctly,” replied Hecate as she laid eyes on the bulbous teapot, the single cup upside-down in its saucer—blessings upon Ada that she did not assume to impose her presence on her—the potion bottle with her own handwriting on its label, the plate of crackers, cheeses, and grapes, and a rather large wedge of cake with a silver cake fork beside it.

“I didn’t think you would want to come down to the Great Hall to eat with the girls. It’s a little before supper time but you must be hankering after a good meal.”

“Thank you, Ada. It is very considerate of you.”

“Everything ship-shape?” Ada said as she righted the teacup and poured the tea.

“Nothing that a bit of sleep cannot cure,” Hecate sighed. 

Ada paused and gave her an examining look. “You’re not to start teaching tomorrow. I don’t care what you think you’re capable of at this stage, but I think I know you well enough by now to be able to tell you when you are tired. And I have never seen you quite _this_ tired.”

“On the contrary, Ada, you will have no argument from me today,” Hecate said, the strength of her words betrayed by the weakness of her voice even as she struggled to maintain propriety in front of her headmistress.

“In that case,” Ada said cautiously, “I have something for you.”

Ada made the gestures of a summoning spell, and drew out of the air a straight black cane with a silver handle. “I’ll warrant a guess that your magic isn’t quite up to full power yet.”

Hecate sat up indignantly, eyes suddenly not as sleepy as she glared at the proffered offending object. “A _cane_, Ada? You want me to _walk_ with a _cane_?”

“That’s the Hecate I know,” Ada chuckled. She rested the cane against the arm of Hecate’s chair. “Please consider it, while you convalesce. Remember we witches are _made_ of magic, and yours was very nearly corrupted by dark magic. Your muscles will take some time to regain their strength.”

With a brief farewell to Hecate’s speechless rage, Ada left. Hecate fumed as she looked at the cane, but found her eye drawn to its silver handle. It was a beautifully rendered design of a raven, its head and beak the curve of the handle, and its feathers and talons etched in fine detail. At the _very_ least it was to her taste, she mused, pinching a grape angrily from the stalk Ada had brought and popping it in her mouth.

* * *

Wednesday passed in a blur of sleep. By Wednesday night, Hecate was unsure whether she would even be awake enough tomorrow to take on the responsibility of teaching, but as she studied her folder of lesson plans, she almost yearned to be standing over a cauldron making the simplest hovering potion.

On Thursday morning, Hecate finally felt her thoughts begin to coalesce into more sense than they had done for the past 48 hours. Her memory had sharpened back to its usual point; she knew that her first lesson of the day was double potions with the first years. As she prepared to face the day, she released her hair from its comfortable low plait, and scraped it back into her usual high bun. She felt more like her old self again as she looked back at the severe face in her dressing table mirror.

It was the first time she had been down to the Great Hall for breakfast, but also the first time in longer than she would care to admit that she had had to physically _walk_ down the steps of the teachers’ wing tower. It was a lot more difficult to manage than she had remembered—especially since she had never done so with a cane before. The steps were far too narrow. Anyone with a chronic mobility impairment would be well within their rights to complain, as without transference spells the castle would be miserable to navigate, as she was rapidly discovering.

A chorus of scraping chairs greeted Hecate when she finally arrived at the Great Hall, cane clunking on the wooden floor with every step. Hecate looked around, bewildered, leaning on the cane and silently grateful for it. She was used to girls standing when she walked into a classroom, but to have every girl from every year paying her respect like this—

“Thank you, girls,” said Ada, moving aside so that Hecate could sit at the teachers’ table, while she herself remained standing. “We would all like to welcome Miss Hardbroom back to teaching. Her services to the school were already innumerable, but the sacrifice and courage she showed in the face of mortal danger showed unmatched devotion to the school that we should all aspire to. Please pay her the greatest respect as she eases back into her teaching schedule.”

Hecate coloured pink at Ada’s words as the girls all resumed their seats and sat in awkward silence with the rest of the staff table, who were all looking tentatively at her, unsure whether a compliment or gratitude would be received well. Over her porridge, Dimity eyed the cane resting against the table by Hecate’s side, but made no comment. Hecate had been ready to quip back at any age-related comments from the young flying instructor, but no such remarks were made. It was a sign either of Dimity’s respect for Hecate’s sacrifice or Ada’s strict instruction that she kept her jokes to herself.

“Miss Drill,” Hecate said in a small voice once the hall had resumed its normal level of chatter, “I hope that your broomstick was returned to you in one piece.”

Dimity looked puzzled for a moment. “Yeah, it was absolutely fine. Miss Pentangle used it when she brought you back to the castle, so she gave it back to me herself.”

Hecate flushed deeply as this new piece of information was revealed to her. Pippa Pentangle had supported her unconscious body on a broomstick and flown back to Cackle’s with her on it? She took a long gulp of tea to bury her face in something while she recovered. That was not something easily put in the back of one’s mind.

* * *

Being the form mistress of Year One, Hecate usually took the register for them in form time and then transferred to the potions laboratory before them to prepare for their arrival on Thursday mornings, since double potions was their first timetabled lesson. However, after snapping her register shut and placing it in her desk today, she picked up her cane, and hobbled off before them to the potions laboratory, trying desperately not to pay heed to the whispers that snaked behind her in the corridors about why she was walking instead of transferring as was her custom.

Hecate unlocked the potions laboratory with her key at her belt, and made her way to her desk in the front of the lab while the girls took their places at their cauldrons. It was rare that she should actually use the chair at her desk while teaching, but under the circumstances it was an unfortunate necessity. The muttering from the girls continued.

“Girls,” Hecate said in a low, slightly threatening voice, raising one eyebrow. Immediately, the room fell silent and their expressions turned from excitement to fear.

“Now, can anyone give me a precis of what Miss Cackle has taught you in my… absence?” Hecate asked, scanning her eyes over her open lesson plan folder. Being absent was such a seldom occurrence for her that even uttering the word felt alien. In fact, she was not even certain of the last time she had taken a day off for illness.

No voice sounded, nor hand rose into the air. Hecate flicked her eyes up around the class in their places at their tiered benches. Ethel, who usually was sat bolt upright with her arms folded, eager to please, looked downcast and deliberately avoided her teacher’s gaze. In front of her sat Mildred Hubble, who seemed clueless as ever, while next to her Maud Spellbody pushed her glasses up her short nose.

“Maud Spellbody. Please review what you covered in yesterday’s lesson with Miss Cackle.”

Maud twisted her mouth before responding. “Yes, Miss Hardbroom. We did Colour-Changing potions yesterday.”

Hecate spent the first five minutes of the lesson testing the girls on the components of a Colour-Changing potion, the method of its preparation, and the practical uses of such a potion. She watched Ethel glumly taking notes at the back of the classroom. Perhaps Ethel had been more affected than she had expected over her humiliating and life-threatening mistakes at Mabon. Admittedly, that was quite likely the reason. It was understandable that she should be a little more muted than usual, as was Hecate herself.

When she was certain that Miss Cackle had indeed covered all bases in yesterday’s lesson—not that she doubted Miss Cackle could teach an adequate potions lesson, but as potions mistress, and as the one who would be setting the girls’ end-of-term examinations, she wanted to make sure that anything that might come up on the paper had been taught to them—Hecate instructed them to open their _Popular Book of Spells_ at page 425 to the Water Purification potion.

“Water Purification potions are an incredibly valuable weapon in a witch’s armoury. Can anyone suggest why?”

Mildred Hubble put her hand up, among a few others. Recalling what Miss Pentangle had said about giving equal opportunities to less able students. “Mildred Hubble.”

The girl looked unsure even as she answered. “Because… if there’s no clean water to drink and you’re thirsty and have to drink sea water or something.”

“Not _quite_ the answer I had in mind, Mildred, but also not technically incorrect,” Hecate said in a measured tone.

Drusilla giggled at the back next to Ethel, nudging her with an elbow. Ethel gave a half-hearted smirk. Hecate sighed, and raised her voice over the disturbance, “Drusilla Paddock. Perhaps you can tell us what is so amusing, or supply the correct answer to the question.”

Drusilla’s eyes widened at having her name called out. “Well, Miss Hardbroom…”

“It’s because purified water is a common ingredient in potions,” Ethel said during the awkward silence. “Being able to convert any water into purified water with just a single drop of Water Purification potion means that the witch on the go doesn’t have to carry water around for her potions.”

“A perfect answer, Ethel Hallow,” said Hecate with an approving nod. She noted that Ethel brightened a little after receiving this praise.

The girls collected their ingredients from the potions supply cupboard, and set about weighing and preparing them for use in the potion. The aroma of crushed fresh herbs and sound of roiling cauldrons was bliss to Hecate, who, having spent several days in solitude in her room with her magic backfiring whenever she tried to use it, was comforted by the familiar presence of magic around her.

Hecate put all her weight onto the cane and stood up precariously, before gradually making her way to the cupboard and gathering her own ingredients to make the potion along with the girls. She usually had one prepared as an example, but since she had taken so long moving from place to place this morning, she had had no time to have already made one. Making her way back to her desk, she instinctively lit the fire under her cauldron with a snap of her fingers before she realised what she had done—miraculously, no blaze or inferno engulfed her entire desk. Perhaps being around magic more was beneficial to her spellcasting ability and her powers were seeing a return to normal. It would be a relief when she could transfer again.

Hecate cast her eye around the lab while she made her potion, surveying which girls were at which stage. Mildred and Maud’s cauldron contained a deep purple potion when it was meant to be a pale lilac. It was far too concentrated, possibly from overworking of the ingredients or leaving the milfoil to steep for too long. Hecate set her own milfoil to steep while she plucked some lemon balm leaves and bruised them gently in one hand and allowed them to fall from a height into her cauldron. Brewing potions was her _art_. She knew the feel of the herbs in her hand with such an affinity that no amount of magical misfiring could keep her from savouring this moment.

“It is time to test your potions, girls,” Hecate called to her class, after some twenty or so minutes when she sensed the girls had all finished, and the quiet conversing ceased. “Fill a flask with pond water from the tank at the back. Ethel, bring a flask for my demonstration as well.”

Ethel brought over the flask for Hecate, smiling tentatively. Hecate placed the flask of murky water on a pedestal so that the girls could more easily see the contents. She took a long glass pipette to extract a drop of her potion from the carefully laid out instruments on her desk. She dipped it into the still, calm surface of her potion, which was the perfect shade of pale lilac, and it shimmered pleasantly as it zipped up the glass tube.

“Now, with a pipette, put a single drop of your potion in. If you are successful, the potion should—”

As soon as the drop hit the surface of the pond water, the water fizzed violently, at once erupting in a storm of bubbles that frothed over the flask. Hecate stepped back in shock as the bubbling grew more violent, and the glass shattered outwards, and tiny fragments flashed as they covered the desk and the floor around it in tiny glittering knives amidst the froth. Several of the girls shrieked.

“_Which_ of you has sabotaged my potion?” Hecate hissed.

The girls were silent. Hecate’s balance wavered slightly as she supported herself with just a hand on the edge of her desk. She immediately realised that it was not the girls who were at fault, but _she herself_. 

“No matter,” Hecate said, her eyes darting around as she realised her sense of control was slipping away. She felt a jolt of guilt at her incorrect accusation, but the idea of admitting she was in the wrong— “We cannot afford to waste any more time. Test your potions as I showed you. Look for a shimmering glow. That is a sign that the pond water has been purified, aside from the obvious fact that the clouded water should become bright and crystal clear.”

The girls did as they were told in baffled silence, noting down their results. Usually Miss Hardbroom would walk around as they tested the potions in turn, but since walking was challenging at the moment, and there was still all that glass on the floor—

The bell rang out suddenly, causing Hecate to jump in panic. It was very rare indeed that she lost track of time during a lesson, and her heart fluttered erratically as she considered that the laboratory was still a mess, glass was everywhere, and it seemed that she might not be able to tidy it all away with magic, and she had not even set homework. She summoned all her constitution to say, “You are all dismissed.”

Hecate heard the mutter of “no homework?” but the anxiety building within her was filling her hands with static—she needed the girls to get away from her, before her volatile magic detonated with yet another deadly mishap. They all filtered out, puzzled, but one figure lingered behind.

“Miss Hardbroom, do you want help cleaning up?” asked Maud, wringing her hands as she gingerly stepped around the glass on the floor.

“No,” Hecate snapped. “Silly girl. You would make yourself late for your next lesson. Leave. Now.”

Maud traipsed out, crestfallen, her bag bouncing off her hip as she went.

With a gesture of her hand, Hecate tried to revert the flask back to its original form, but instead of coming back together, the shards of glass vibrated violently, before dissolving into sand. Hecate felt the heat rising in her face as she tried a different tack, and attempted a transference spell, but it too failed and blasted the sand outwards. Shame sunk in around her as she attempted spell after spell, energy flashing through the air, with increasing panic and even worse consequences—sand began multiplying until the floor of the potions lab was an inch deep in the stuff.

Hecate sank to the floor and put her head in her hands. It was so demoralising to be this way—a broken witch—barely able to cast a simple cleanup spell—unable to mix a potion that most competent first years managed with ease. Her hand closed over the fine grains of sand tightly, and she felt hot tears of frustration at the corners of her eyes. This helplessness was _not_ her. She was _Hecate Hardbroom_, deputy headmistress of the most ancient witching academy in Britain, and she was _anything but_ helpless.

Getting to her feet with sudden force, heedless of the agony she was putting her body through, she staggered her way over to the supply cupboard and began pulling out whatever she could find. She cleared a space on her desk, set up a spare cauldron, since she was unable to vanish the potion currently in hers, and began mixing a potion. The clouds of her thoughts parted and a single cold light shone through. There was surely one potion—if it worked— that she could use to control this—control and contain her damaged magic.

The potion appeared to be coming together. Dashing about, casting sand aside with her feet as she went, she prepared the final herbs that were to be added at the end. And at last, the frenzy washing out of her, her hair wisping loose from its bun—she had completed it. She poured the entire potion into a long, straight bottle, before decanting a draught into a vial. She knocked back the blood red liquid, and felt it freeze in her veins.

Hecate closed her eyes and took several deep breaths. She felt an absolute stillness within her, and the blissful release from the panic brought forth fresh tears to her eyes. She opened her eyes to face the horrendous mess of her potions lab, but this time she felt confident and in control.

She twirled her hand in a transference spell, but something was wrong—the usual energy she felt in her fingertips was completely absent. 

Instead of weakening her magic, she had _removed_ it. Her throat ached as she realised what she had done—before she reminded herself that the potion was only meant to last a few hours. Her magic would return. Yet still, the feeling remained. Without her magic, what was she? But with her magic, she was a danger to the girls she promised to protect.

* * *

Hecate curled her fingers over the silver raven handle of her cane. She was still reeling from her meltdown in the potions lab a few days ago, but the potion had, of course, worn off eventually, leaving her with her explosive spells. The cane was starting to feel more comfortable—or _less uncomfortable_, if anything—in her hand. She still had need of it, even with the days that had passed since she had awoken, to support her easily fatigued body. The wound on her chest also had the habit of tingling occasionally. The sensation was either in her head or merely where Pippa’s healing magic had not fully repaired the damage. In any case, it was not worth troubling anyone else over. 

She arrived in the corridor outside the staff room door to see Miss Nightscribe approaching the oak door; with a sudden and visceral cocktail of guilt and resentment she inhaled sharply as Miss Nightscribe’s eyes flicked up to her behind her half-moon spectacles. While she struck a well turned out figure today in a french navy suit that Hecate could not help but admire, the young librarian had much to say for her involvement in Ethel’s blunder.

“Miss Hardbroom,” Miss Nightscribe said as way of greeting, and swung the door open for her.

“Miss Nightscribe,” replied Hecate formally, frostiness creeping at the edges of her voice, before planting her cane firmly and perhaps with a little more force than necessary and entered. 

Ada was already seated at the table, upon which was the familiar sight of her teapot and a congregation of teacups sitting upside-down in their saucers.

“Tea, Hecate?” Ada said, turning over one of the cups and beginning to pour rich amber fluid into each.

“Thank you, Headmistress,” Hecate said in an austere tone, ignoring the plate of biscuits and easing herself down into the straight-backed chair by Ada’s.

“And for you, Mattie,” Ada smiled warmly at Miss Nightscribe, whose shoulders were hunched and tense, and handed her a steaming teacup. Miss Nightscribe returned a shy smile and took the tea gratefully as well as a custard cream from the plate of biscuits, seating herself on the other side of the table to Hecate. “Milk’s in the jug for you, dear,” Ada said, tapping the homely pink-patterned milk jug. Hecate had to stop herself from rolling her eyes as Miss Nightscribe topped up her tea with milk.

Miss Bat soon joined, and Miss Drill later in a harried flurry after Hecate had drained half of her own cup of tea. Once they were all settled, Ada looked around at them all and started the meeting while Miss Drill helped herself to tea and piled a few bourbons on her saucer.

“I think we all know why we are here. Now that Miss Hardbroom is back on her feet, we need to discuss further action that needs to be taken regarding the events of Mabon eve. Hecate, was there anything that you wished to add to your account since our discussion?”

“I have had time to think over the particulars of Ethel’s spellcasting,” Hecate began, hands pressed together on the table before them. Her fingers had the numb sensation as they touched, instead of the buzz of magic. She had never known that feeling had been so much a part of her until she felt its lack. Whenever she remembered the full effects of her magic suppression potion, she felt a wave of heartbreak crashing over her, but it was imperative that she keep herself together in front of others, and particularly during this important meeting. 

“I have surmised that our young Miss Hallow’s spell—while inventive, to be sure—was flawed on its most basic principle. The awakening spell, when cast by such a young witch, should not have worked on such a large object, and certainly not one that is an already living organism. 

“There was also the other component of her spell to consider—her harnessing of the wild magic that surrounds the school. She claimed that this served to make a connection with the fae realm, in which the dryads reside. Now, some of this wild magic originates from the leftover energies from spells cast at the academy and from ourselves. While the spells that we teach our girls are _good_ in nature, some of this energy will of course come from negative thoughts, feelings, and spells cast in distress or anger. This energy is normally harmless, but when used as the amplification for a spell—particularly one that may have been cast for selfish reasons of ambition—can become dark magic.

“Thus we turn back to the awakening spell—that should not have worked. What Ethel ended up awakening was in fact the dark magic, allowing it to take grip on the tree’s life force. Ethel’s repetitive and consistent casting of the herbs into the tree’s water supply, when amplified by the dark magic, inadvertently began to curse the tree with Blight. There was never any connection made to the fae realm—such a feat is rarely possible for experienced witches, let alone first years who have little knowledge of the dangers with which they are toying.”

To be speaking of magic when her own felt so detached from her was a cruel wrench in her chest, but there was nothing to be done. She would have to keep taking the potion until her magic repaired itself.

“Do you know what will happen to the grove?” Miss Nightscribe asked in a quiet, small voice. 

Hecate zoned in on her with her dark eyes narrowed, grounding herself with her disdain for the librarian. “The environmental implications. Indeed. That is another serious matter we must discuss. As most of you know,” here Hecate eyed Miss Nightscribe, who was the exception, “I have lived in Cackle’s Academy’s grounds for almost my entire life. I have _known_ these forests intimately. 

“The impact on the dryads who inhabit the trees in the Grey Gloaming will have been catastrophic. Obviously the destruction of this historical and sacred space is a great loss to all who respected the forest, and for all its gifts to us as witches. However, the tragic loss of the ancient mother tree of the grove will of course mean that the trees around it will suffer. They may even die because the connection between the offspring trees to their mother has been obliterated. The dryads may leave this grove in their grief and find homes elsewhere. In fact, it is likely that they already have.”

“But you have made a connection with the dryads, Hecate,” Ada said, her saddened face lifted slightly with her usual optimism.

Hecate nodded to her headmistress. “It is indeed true that I gained the trust of that family of dryads over many years. Yet I fear that after reducing their mother tree to burning ash I will have betrayed that trust.”

“But you _saved_ them all from the Blight. Surely they will understand?” Miss Bat offered kindly.

“I cannot say for certain until—until I can make contact again,” Hecate replied, emotion shaking her voice as she considered just how much longer it would take, with her powers in ruins as they were. “And it may not be for some time, since the dryads’ whereabouts will have to be traced. I cannot imagine that they will want to return to the Grey Gloaming in the state it is in currently.”

Ada, evidently detecting Hecate’s reluctance to pursue that particular avenue, chimed in, “Perhaps that is something to pursue when the time is right. Now, I feel we should also talk about Ethel Hallow.”

“We mustn’t judge the poor girl too harshly,” said Miss Bat, “She clearly has a brilliant mind and we should not discourage creativity.”

“I do not disagree, Miss Bat,” said Hecate. “But Ethel must be made to understand the consequences of attempting magic far beyond her level and the impact that it can have on others. But this brings me to another point.” Hecate paused to breathe in the silence that had fallen over the rest of the staff. The tension in the room thickened as she set her eyes upon Miss Nightscribe.

“Miss Nightscribe, while I am certain your intentions were to aid a promising student’s independent project, we have to investigate your part in this. I understand that you spent quite some time with Ethel in the library. It is curious to me how she managed to happen upon the particular course of action. I cannot think that there were any pernicious schemes that you were attempting to put into action.” Miss Nightscribe flushed deeply from ear to ear, and her eyes filled with tears. “You understand, Miss Nightscribe, how this might look.”

“M- Miss Hardbroom,” Miss Nightscribe stammered. “The only thing I _tried_ to do was to point Ethel in the right direction. She was very interested in dryads, of course, and I showed her where the texts were in the library on them. And then naturally she asked about the fae realm where they are from and we did a bit of searching together on what we could find in the school library about that— but nothing more, I promise. I knew her project was to communicate with dryads, but she never told me the full extent of what she intended to do. She said she wanted it to be a surprise.”

“I think that’s enough, Hecate,” Ada said with a surprisingly blunt tone. “I don’t think any further cross-examination of our librarian is needed.”

“Well, we must decide how we are to regenerate the damaged ground in the grove,” Hecate said briskly, eager to brush her scolding from Ada under the carpet. “And I have a suggestion. Once we ensure the ground has been expunged of dark magic, we can begin to introduce compost to restore and repair the soil’s nutrient balance. Then in a month or so it will be a good time to plant a sapling in the mother tree’s place.”

“Would you agree that a good—I won’t say _punishment_—but learning experience for Ethel would be to assist in the regeneration of the grove?” Ada said, selecting a pink wafer from the plate of biscuits. Dimity saw this as an opportunity to grab another bourbon and dunked the chocolatey biscuit into her tea.

“That is precisely what I had in mind, Ada,” Hecate responded.

Miss Nightscribe looked up from her teacup, into which she had been staring after her admonishment. “I should like to help with that too,” she said. “There’s so much I could learn from such a great potions mistress and botanist as you, Miss Hardbroom.”

Hecate gave Miss Nightscribe an evaluating look before tilting her head in acquiescence, indicating a more if-you-must sentiment than wholehearted assent. “Very well. It will be no small task and your assistance will be… welcome.” It was with reluctance that she agreed to Miss Nightscribe’s presence, but perhaps with Miss Nightscribe’s functional magic it could be achieved. But there was the matter that the librarian was awfully dependent, and Hecate did not want to lead her down the garden path. It was a difficult situation. Ada met Hecate’s eye with an approving raise of her pale eyebrows.

“If no one has anything more to add?” Ada said, looking around at her staff. “Wonderful. We can start making the arrangements for the regeneration of the grove. Hecate, are you all set to start that cauldron bubbling?”

“I am, Headmistress,” said Hecate, gripping the handle of her cane to push herself upright. 

Miss Drill got to her feet hastily and offered a steadying hand for Hecate to lean on. Hecate waved her off and shakily—wincing—stood up from her chair.

“You sure you’ll be all right, HB?” Dimity asked.

“I am fine,” Hecate lied.

* * *

It had been a week and a half since Hecate had begun suppressing her magic. Every six hours, she would take a dose of the blood-red potion, and it would freeze the magic within her, rendering her safe—but powerless—for the next few hours.

The potion seemed to make her even more weak in her body, however. She doubted the original weakening potion—what it was meant to have been—was intended for long-term use. She found herself leaning more heavily on the cane, and that after half a day’s lessons she could barely stay awake without raiding the dwindling supply of Wide Awake potions in the potions laboratory. But her magic was not any better. On the contrary, it had become even more difficult to control—jumping out of her when the potion started to wear off. She had set Mildred Hubble’s homework on fire one evening in her office—which had been difficult to explain when she returned it, marked but distinctly more weathered than before. However, whatever rumours of what had happened in that disastrous potions lesson had not travelled, she was sure. She felt an inkling of pride in her first year girls that they had not spread hurtful gossip about her. 

She had not cast a single spell—other than the transference spells she had been practising in private between doses of the potion. It had become an obsession, her tests to see if her magic was becoming any less destructive—if she was gaining any more control back. Now was the longest she felt she had ever gone without a successful spell. Some of girls had been growing suspicious but mostly stayed silent on the matter. When they dared to ask, she could only say that she was still tired after her ordeal, or give them a withering look that she reserved for questions that concerned her personal life.

Hecate had avoided Ada wherever she could manage it, for Ada was the only one whom Hecate found it impossible to deceive for any length of time. Ada cared too much about her; she knew every single one of her emotional tells to such an extent that Hecate suspected that Ada knew what she was feeling before she even did herself.

Yet, she felt an unending sense of guilt from this withholding of information from her headmistress. Ada had been so kind to her throughout her time at Cackle’s, and it was because of their long history together, even back as far as when she had been a student under Ada, and then as a teaching assistant, and eventually as equal colleagues, that Hecate felt such a strong duty towards her. Ada was as close to a maternal presence as Hecate had experienced, and yet she felt that she was undeserving of the warmth the headmistress surrounded her with. As the blood-red level of magic suppression potion in the bottle lowered, she considered how she was to replicate the exact misfiring that had caused the weakening potion to become a suppression potion. She had created the ticking clock of her own impending ruin.

So it came to be time for Hecate’s usual weekly meeting with Ada, Hecate knew she could not put this conversation off for any longer. The headmistress had not specifically called for her, but she had hinted to Hecate that she had been looking forward to sharing a pot of tea with her now that she was so much improved. She felt somehow inside that Ada already knew—she had to know—Hecate was not exactly known for her great enthusiasm for walking. Spells were her lifeblood, and their absence had to have been glaringly obvious.

* * *

As Hecate’s hand rapped at the door to the headmistress’s office, she heard voices already within. Unprecedented—unbidden—the lilting sweet tones of Pippa Pentangle. Her blood drained from her face, but as she took a step back from the door, it opened to reveal Ada’s concerned face.

“You— you said you would not invite her,” Hecate said under her breath, feeling the sting of Pippa’s eyes meeting hers for an instant from one of the armchairs within the chamber before she centred her gaze back on Ada.

“I didn’t. She just turned up. She said she hadn’t heard from you and she was _worried_,” Ada responded in the same hushed whisper. Then in her normal voice, she said, smiling uneasily, “Come in, Hecate.”

Hecate stood for a moment, her limbs so tense that she thought she would be unable to move them. The knuckles on her hand clenching the cane’s raven head were viciously white. Then out of only the deepest respect for Ada, she edged in, the cane tapping on the flagstone flooring as she went.

Pippa had already risen to her feet, her slinky pink dress flowing over her legs as she stepped closer and her expression grew puzzled and tender as she saw what was in Hecate’s hand and faltered.

Suddenly, Hecate’s other hand shot up to her chest as a thunderclap of pain pierced through her. Her long fingers started to tingle with the sensation of her magic ebbing back, and her breathing increased as she realised that any spark of magic could explode out of her at the slightest intention. Ada caught Hecate by the upper arms as she lurched forward and steadied her.

“You didn’t let me know that you were all right,” Pippa said quietly, looking up and down at Hecate. “And I can see you’re— not.”

“I did not wish for you to see me like this,” Hecate said, her voice haggard with the effort of holding back the rush of emotions and magic. Pippa’s perfect cheekbones were not making this any easier. Hecate brushed Ada off her and tried to stand on her own.

Pippa tucked a stray piece of hair behind her ear and her fingers lingered on the skin behind her ear. “Did my magic not heal you properly? Are you still hurt?”

Hecate flexed her hand, the burn of magic in her fingers once again like a powerful drug, rushing through her body after being numbed for so long. Determinedly ignoring Pippa, she said, “Ada, I cannot stay here—”

“Hecate?”

The power built up in her—she could not keep it at bay any longer. The shame of Pippa seeing her—pitying her—was building inside until the pressure was too much to take. She, who had held Hecate’s hand as they bowed before the audience—she, who had tearfully berated Hecate as spellworks lit up the sky above them—she, who had imparted her healing magic into her as her life was draining from her—she—now the fragment of memory unfolding in her mind—upon whose shoulder Hecate had lain her head as they soared over the trees on a shared broomstick, burying her face into the smoothness and scent of her hair amongst a whirl of stars around them and the rush of cool night sky. A twist of her hand—and Hecate found herself thrown headlong at the wall in her own bedchambers. Her head cracked against the corner of her bureau, and lights danced before her vision.

* * *

Hecate knew that any minute Ada—or Morgan le Fay forbid, Pippa—could be on her trail. Utterly wretched and head splitting, she reached up onto the bureau until her hand met a vial of decanted suppression potion, and uncorking it, she quaffed the mouthful of red liquid—letting the vial slip from her hand and roll away as she felt herself become undone by the heartbreak lashing through her body as her veins froze.

A knock came at the door, but Hecate heard it only distantly. There was a sound of movement as someone entered her chamber. “Hecate, what’s happening—?”

From the floor, Hecate saw Ada’s arm reach down and pick up the dropped vial from beside her. Ada dipped a finger in some of the blood-red residue left in it, before bringing it up to her tongue.

“Ada, don’t!” Hecate cried out, wrenching Ada’s hand from her mouth. She was just in time. 

Ada looked down at Hecate, who was on her knees, her eyes wild, still clinging to Ada’s arm. “Hecate, what is in this potion?”

“It is— a magic suppression potion.” 

Ada stared at Hecate aghast. “But why…?”

“My magic, Ada, it is— corrupted. I cannot even transfer without hurting myself or those around me. I had to—I had to.” 

Ada was speechless. Hecate searched her gentle blue eyes for any sign of what she might be feeling but was too panicked to be able to tell what the stillness of Ada’s eyes meant. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you _trust_ me?”

* * *

Before she could answer—if she could ever have found the right words to answer Ada truthfully—Hecate felt the comforting sensation of Ada’s magic cushion around her as she transferred them both back to her office, and she found herself sitting in the chair opposite Ada’s desk. Hecate scanned the room frantically, but all traces of Miss Pentangle had gone.

“She left at my request,” Ada explained, folding her hands together on her desk. “I’m sorry that I could not warn you of her arrival. I admit I was not expecting you quite so early.”

Hecate merely stayed silent. She was dreading what was to come, although nothing would be as devastating as Ada’s last words before Ada had transferred them back to her office—or so she thought.

“Hecate, I’m signing you off work—don’t argue.” The startling words from the normally amiable headmistress struck Hecate, particularly in her weakened emotional state. Ada peered at her from the other side of the desk, eyes resolute over her glasses.

“Ada, I—”

“I’m afraid you are not fit to work,” Ada said with a finality that rippled through Hecate’s insides. “You need a _break_, my dear. Two weeks. At minimum. After the two weeks are up, we shall see how you are getting on.”

“You cannot expect me to accept this, Ada. My work _is_ my life. Without this I have no purpose. How can I walk through these castle halls with all the girls if I am not contributing _something_? Am I to be banished to my chambers for a fortnight with nothing useful to offer?”

“I _expect_ you to take care of yourself, Hecate. You owe it to the school—you owe it to the girls you swear to protect and teach. And about your accommodations—I think it best that you do not remain in the castle with so much temptation around you.”

“—Miss Cackle, my confinement.”

“Yes, Hecate. I was just getting to that part,” Ada said, waving her hand and a sunbeam shone down on the desk, filled with the image of a stout country dwelling, its slate walls crawling with ivy and spiderwebs. “On the grounds there is a little cottage that used to belong to my mother.”

“Westwood Lodge,” Hecate whispered, her voice failing in her throat. It was in this cottage that she had stayed during the summers while she was confined to the grounds as a schoolgirl. It was there that she had first met Mistress Broomhead. She had not been back there since she had become a teacher, when she had vowed never to return.

“I know you haven’t many good memories of that place, but it is the only place that we can manage to secure with the appropriate protective spells. The staff and I will do our level best to get it looking more homely to you. And while you are there we will properly research what has happened to your magic. We can transfer some of your personal things there so you can have access to whatever you need. And of course a mirror will be installed for you to use whenever you should like.”

Hecate felt herself undoing at the seams. Her place as a teacher was what drew the disparate parts of herself together. It was her life—her _life_. “Respectfully, I would rather remain in my personal chambers for a year or that the ground would swallow me whole before I set a single footstep in _Westwood Lodge_,” Hecate hissed, bitterness carving her mouth into a scowl.

“Hecate,” Ada said gently, reaching her hand across the desk to touch Hecate’s hand. Hecate retracted her hand before the older woman could touch her skin. “You will not be alone. I promise we won’t abandon you. We will send you visitors whenever we can. _I_ will be there when I can be spared here. And you may wander the grounds freely.”

“It seems I have no choice,” said Hecate, her jaw set, her eyes glistening and stony.

“Hecate, I hope you can see this as a kindness. We don’t want you to suffer. We hope that you will get better, with our help. But _no_ to this suppression business. And as soon as your magic has returned to normal, we will welcome you back to the castle. It’s for the safety of the girls. You can’t keep taking that potion forever. Can’t you see what it’s done to you already?”

Hecate bowed her head. She was uncertain as to whether she was more ashamed that she was so out of control that she had to suppress her own magic with a potion or that Ada had asked why she had not trusted her enough to share the burden.

“I shall make preparations to leave,” Hecate said, staring into the woodgrain of the headmistress’s desk. It recalled to her mind all the previous times she had been in this very position. She, a few too many times in her first couple of years at Cackle’s, had been in here, cowering before Ada Cackle’s mother. That was before she learnt the importance of following the Witches’ Code. She would never again make that mistake.

“Hecate,” Ada said quickly as Hecate made to get up to leave. In Ada’s hands was the raven-topped cane that had fallen when Hecate had transferred out.

“Yes, Headmistress?”

“You know we care very much about you. None of us can imagine what you’re going through with your powers failing you. You above all of us deserve some happiness in your life, with all you have suffered. Every one of us has a glowing respect for you, did you know? And we all feel our magic is a little dimmer without yours to brighten the way. So make sure you take care of yourself and _rest_—even though I know you don’t think you deserve to rest—so you can get better and we can have our entire Cackle’s family together again.”

Hecate simply nodded in response, and accepted the cane silently. As she struggled to her feet and turned towards the door, her eyes were filled with meek tears of solace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly I'm absolutely humbled and bowled over with your utterly wonderful reactions and comments on the last chapter!!! You really made this Heathcliff happy :')
> 
> Okay so,, this turned out longer than I expected. I had less than 1500 words on this last week and it became a Lot More in a very short space of time.
> 
> The quotation this time is from a letter from Violet Trefusis to Vita Sackville-West. It has a double meaning in the context of this chapter (i.e. the emptiness of the "house" is Hecate's feelings about her suppressed magic, but also Hecate reflecting on her and Pippa's moments together).
> 
> Hecate being ableist and snobbish about using a cane is not my opinion of people who use canes. You can see her change her mind about it over the course of the chapter. Although she has still some reservations about Pippa seeing her use it because she's proud to a fault—and that's what I'm really pushing with this fic.
> 
> My hands are really dang shaky as I'm writing these notes because I'm so nervous about posting this. hhhhhhhh
> 
> buT LOOK AT THAT HAPPY???? ENDING?!?!?!
> 
> Thank you again for all your amazing comments. They really kept me going this week (it's been an especially difficult one) and inspired me to write FASTER!!
> 
> Heathcliff  
@heathtrash on tumblr


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hecate moves into Westwood Lodge, finding it altered from when she was last there, and struggles to cope with visitors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I've waited a long, long time, all my life - and now that I’ve found you at last, I can’t get near you.”  
Radclyffe Hall, _The Well of Loneliness_
> 
> cw: some implied abuse

Hecate, holding her single modest-sized black suitcase in one hand and cane in the other, stood alone on the path, looking back whence she came. The castle was half a mile off, and inscrutable now from the distance down the hill she had come. All around her was a dry fresh air mingled with slightly damp earth, for the forest was blanketed in crisp golden leaves, so much like russet snow.

She had not walked this way in a long time. Travelling by foot was something she rarely did unless the act of walking was the intention. She had insisted to Ada that she was capable of making the journey herself, and that accompanying her was completely unnecessary waste of the headmistress’s time. The way was so familiar to her that she almost felt no time had passed since her school days, and she was back as a teenager making her way to Westwood Lodge for her summer instruction with Mistress Broomhead. 

Autumn was always such a transformative season, Hecate mused as she continued along the path through the quiet forest, watching Morgana padding along ahead, pausing to investigate movements in piles of leaves and watch squirrels with her round eyes. It felt odd going this way in October, when she had only formerly been made to stay at Westwood during the summer months. Then, the forest was wild, noisy, heavy with verdant growth, itching to grow beyond its bounds over the path to ensnare unwitting travellers. Now it seemed peaceable. Returning as an adult, Hecate felt as though the forest knew how much time had fallen on her, and how much wisdom she had had to find too soon for her years.

The cottage would be just here around this corner. Hecate knew the trees that heralded her arrival to Westwood, and felt them keenly as they watched over her with their faces of knots and old, creased limbs. Her hand tightened over the raven handle of the cane as she anticipated the sight of the cottage and the memories that would invite themselves back into her head.

The garden was much the same. Tangles of ivy and overblown roses intruded over everything, such that the trellis arch nor sign of the fence could be seen for tendrils of thorns, and even the house itself seemed to be in the grip of a tentacled ivy leviathan. Hecate ducked through the arch—she was so tall that the thorns would have snagged her hair—and made her way over the irregular flagstone path towards the cottage.

While less overgrown thirty years ago, it looked as though time had almost stood still. Every slate was exactly as she remembered, and while the front door looked as though it had been painted over—before it had been a sallow sun-bleached peach, and now it was a cheery bright red—a stab of anxiety still dug between her ribs. Steeling herself with a tighter grip on her suitcase handle and cane, she took the key from the chain at her waist and prepared to unlock the door.

The old lock groaned and the tumblers inside eased open as Hecate turned the key. She would have preferred to transfer in had she control of her magic—but then would she, if she was being truthful with herself? Perhaps this manual unlocking was more symbolic, somehow. She set the suitcase down on the front porch, by the somewhat amateur clay sculptures of frogs and cats, and used both hands to jolt the stiff door open where it had swollen with damp.

Morgana curled herself around the door and shot in as soon as the gap was wide enough to admit her lithe form. A warm smell greeted Hecate as she lingered on the doorstep in front of the open door. It jarred absurdly with her memory of Westwood Lodge as a cold, draughty building whose homely atmosphere as the cottage of Mrs Alma Cackle had been mostly stripped back to the tastes of the spartan Mistress Broomhead. As if in a dream, Hecate found herself drifting forwards, directly into what had been an unloved kitchen, but now gleamed with new walnut wood cupboards, an island with bar stools, and granite surfaces—and there, proudly on a wire cooling rack, sat a splendid golden loaf, dusted with flour, scored artfully to look like an open shell. Hecate hovered her hand over it; it was still radiating heat as if it had just come out of the oven not half an hour since.

And then her eyes fell upon a square of white on the dark granite. Beneath a shining set of copper saucepans was a large envelope bearing her name. Curious, Hecate picked it up, and unfolded the tucked-in leaf. She slipped out a beautifully painted card that bore the image of a witch with long streaming hair riding a broomstick against a starry sky graduating from turquoise to blue to midnight black. She recognised the trim on the robes as belonging to herself, and realised this had been her last flight when she had faced the Blight alone, which had cost her the integrity of her powers.

_Dear Miss Hardbroom,_

_Get well soon! We will miss you in Potions but promise we will work hard for Miss Darkside until you get back._

_Sending all our well wishes for a speedy recovery._

The inscription was short, but every other square inch of the card was filled with signatures and messages from all the girls in the school. Hecate felt the card drop from her fingers as she was overwhelmed by tears that flooded her vision and sank down onto the floor. She leaned her head against the smooth, cool wood of the cupboard and wept. 

Morgana, unsettled by her mistress being on the floor, nosed Hecate’s leg, and Hecate, surprised by the sensation, roused from her state and remembered that the front door was still open and her suitcase was still waiting for her outside. She rose shakily to her feet, steadying herself on the counter, before retrieving the case. The front garden was just as empty as it had been earlier, but seeing it now through her tears, she thought it resembled a kinder, freer spirit than it had done before when she had had this view.

Hecate ascended the stairs to the small landing, Morgana snaking around her legs. The positioning of the rooms was the same; her old room, the spare bedroom, was on the right, next to the bathroom, while the master bedroom was on the left. She debated whether she was intended to sleep in the spare bedroom as she had done so many times, or the master bedroom, in which Mistress Broomhead had taken residence.

Hecate rested her hand on the door handle of the right-hand door—the spare room. She felt as though opening the door would release decades of her caged sorrow—where she had cried—felt so much pain she had wanted to escape it all—where she had systematically cut away the excess, silly parts of her childhood and coalesced into the strict disciplinarian she was today. She owed everything she was to Mistress Broomhead, and yet— and yet—

The door opened. She expected to see the single bed shoved up against one wall, the scrubbed wooden desk, the small wardrobe, and the utilitarian shelving. But it was all gone. The walls glowed a gentle blue, and a lovely antique bed frame graced the centre of the wall, spread with a glorious deep navy linen. Morgana cautiously investigated the edge of the bed but remained reserved. A flash of purple smoke drew her attention to the folding writing desk by the window, upon which was a note that Hecate could have sworn had not been there when she first entered.

_Hecate,_

_You may choose whichever bedroom suits you best. Remember you are here to relax and convalesce, so think only of your own comfort. _

_Ada_

Hecate braced herself once more, and entered the master bedroom. Like the spare bedroom, the furnishings had all been completely replaced. It had the smell of something vaguely familiar that she could not place but that made her feel tight inside—but in a way that was not unpleasant. Morgana slipped through ahead of her and jumped up onto the vast bed—which surely had to be larger than a double, Hecate pondered. It was a dark wood four-poster with pale gold hangings and a deep sea-green brocade bedspread, and now had a furry black circle curled up next to one of the pillows. The walls, rather than the dirty grey with pinkish smudges that used to be flowers Hecate in her younger days had often glimpsed through the half-closed door, were a teal colour, with painted gold accents along the picture rails and on the metal handles of the desk and armoire. Perhaps the gold was a bit much, but certainly the picture as a whole was welcoming. 

She decided that while the bed was altogether too large for her, the decor extravagant, and the gold taking the entire thing into the realms of the slightly ridiculous, that the master bedroom felt more comfortable—and besides, Morgana seemed perfectly at home, purring and settled on the bed. 

Hecate put her case down, and sat at the dressing table. Her hair felt too tight in its high bun. She had definitely made it extra tight this morning, having been so concerned over what it would feel like being back in Westwood Lodge. Now that she was here, however, it was certainly—peaceful, at least more than she thought it would have been. She thought that perhaps it was time to ease the tension on her scalp.

She slid the pins out of her bun one by one, letting each lock of her hair fall heavily down her back. As the last hairpin was removed, she felt the familiar frisson of energy as the straightness enchantment faded and her hair bounced back into curls, falling to her waist in a dark chestnut tumble. This was temporary, just to stop the tension headache that was threatening to begin—she never would let anyone see her with her hair down. For now, she would be safe; Ada had informed her someone would be around later, for dinner, so that she would not have to eat alone—she would have time to tidy away her hair before then.

She considered her suitcase and decided that she had better unpack. The suitcase contained the few clothes she had, her pen, parchment, the Witches’ Code. A few toiletries, hat pins, a hair brush, and a needle book in which she kept her hairpins—everything had its purpose. Hecate opened the wardrobe, finding a lavender and cedarwood-scented pouch dangling from the rail by a set of clothes hangers—more, Hecate noted, than she had clothes to hang up. She unfolded the clothing that she had brought, which was all that she owned, and began hanging up the three dresses, two skirts, two blouses, and her summer and winter cloaks. When you could launder by magic, owning more clothes than this was surely surplus to requirement.

Other than The Witches’ Code, there were no other books in her suitcase. She had left a list of texts and tomes for Ada to transfer over at her earliest convenience, so that she could study. She mulled over all the work she would get done as she placed her underwear and night gown into the chest of drawers. Just because she was unable to cast magic at the moment did not mean that she would fall behind on her work.

Hecate looked at all the empty space in the drawer and wardrobe, having run out of clothes to put away. Was all that space really necessary? Did others have so much in their lives that they could fill entire chests of drawers with so many items of clothing? Did they all have memories? Would one be able to pick up a skirt amongst hundreds and still be able to recall a painful incident that had happened a decade ago? Hecate passed her hand over the dresses in her wardrobe and felt as though her heart would break over the collective memories of the years she had endured. And yet to her students, who saw her in these garments more frequently than anyone else, they were the miserable garb of a heartless drill sergeant of a teacher. 

Pippa’s words that night at Mabon still stung. Painful flashing images of Pippa—radiant in the dark with the steam from her mulled cider curling before her face—and then—_“You’ve changed, Hecate.”_ Hecate hung her head. Her loose hair swung forwards over her cheeks. The curls seemed particularly rebellious in this room, where Mistress Broomhead had chastised her for the crime of merely having hair that curled on its own.

_“Curls are frivolous and show an untamed mind. Hair should be arranged modestly. It is a waste of time to deal with such unmanageable hair. These hairpins should straighten out those ringlets. And then we shall see about straightening the rest of you out.”_

She could still recall the bristles digging into her scalp that first time that Mistress Broomhead had demonstrated the appropriate arrangement of her hair—once the initial Hairpin of Straightness had first sent her long curls shivering and uncoiling, leaving her vivacious hair straight and lifeless—then the brush pushing into her skull, smoothing the hair until it was flat and shining against her head into a high topknot, and then twisting the ponytail until it coiled over itself, and yet more pins jabbed in to anchor the bun to her head. After that, the young Hecate had quickly learnt how to put her hair into a bun herself to spare her the humiliating and torturous ordeal, and never let anyone touch her hair again, which was why finding her hair in that loose, low plait had felt so unnerving, although she had been too overwhelmed at the time to have properly processed it. Who had done it? Ada? Miss Nightscribe? Or— no, it could not be.

A softness at her leg brought her back to the room. Morgana had abandoned the bed and was pressing against her stockings. Hecate removed her hands from her lap and her familiar leapt up into it, turning around until she found a position she liked and finally relaxed as Hecate’s hands stroked her absent-mindedly.

Did she want to continue to be the cruel disciplinarian that she had been shaped to become? Ensuring the sanctity of the Witches’ Code was what Hecate had devoted her life to, but had she done so in ignorance of the damage she was imparting upon her students? Had she spent her twenty-five years of teaching passing on the trauma that she had suffered at the hands of Mistress Broomhead?

_“That’s all you’re going to accomplish when you rule with an iron fist like that,”_ Pippa’s voice floated through her mind. 

Hecate closed her eyes, sinking her hands into Morgana’s fur. There had to be some kind of balance.

* * *

In the absence of gainful work to occupy herself, Hecate had set about exploring the house more fully. It was strange that the rooms should look so different, even though they were the very same in dimension as when she had lived here for all those summers. She had thought that she would feel Mistress Broomhead’s shadow looming over her from across the years, but the memories were less keen than they had once been. That she had had only one Broomhead-related breakdown so far was a testament to the healing powers of time.

The bathroom was unrecognisable with dark walnut wooden features and walls of warm lavender. It also had a new shower, and a luxurious bath—Hecate did not remember the last time she had had a bath rather than a brisk shower and doubted she would feel like breaking that habit now—with clusters of candles around the outside, and a few jars labelled in a hand she did not recognise containing herbal bath salts. It was clear that whomever had stocked this bathroom intended for Hecate to pamper herself, which was something she was resistant to as far as her hygiene routine was concerned.

While she had already seen the sleek new kitchen, Hecate had not yet investigated what was inside it. Opening the cupboards, she located (most importantly) where the cat food was kept, a well-stocked baking cupboard, the herbs and spices rack, potatoes, dried pasta, rice, tins of beans and legumes, and—to her relief, a cupboard entirely devoted to her own tins of tea, which Ada must have transferred from Hecate’s office, and several different teapots intended for different teas.

Hecate was pleased to find a selection of cheeses in the fridge, along with a good supply of fresh vegetables. Ada knew her taste in cheese well; it was the dearest gift whenever Ada took one of her summer trips around the British countryside or to the Continent and brought back with her all the various cheeses of the regions she had been to. They would share them in the comfort of Ada’s sitting room while Ada told her the stories of the places where she had procured each cheese. One could simply not know Ada Cackle for as long as Hecate had and not be touched by her generosity or kindness of spirit.

It was almost a time that could be considered lunch, so Hecate decided that it would be a good opportunity to sample some of the cheeses. To accompany them, Hecate had carved off some of the wonderful fresh bread loaf whose aroma had greeted her when she first entered the cottage. The fridge had also contained a variety of chutneys and her favourite red grapes. She took an apple from the fruit bowl and a knife, and sat at the kitchen island on one of the stools while she ate. Morgana hopped up onto the surface, intrigued—or made hungry—by the smell of the cheese. Hecate put a tiny crumb on the end of her finger and held it out for her familiar, who nipped it off delicately, before pawing Hecate’s hand again for more.

“Now, now, Morgana. You don’t want an upset stomach,” Hecate said, scritching her chin. Morgana begrudgingly enjoyed the chin scritches, before sitting on the envelope that the Get Well Soon card from her students had arrived in and watching Hecate wide-eyed while she ate.

* * *

Hecate had just finished putting her hair back in its usual bun—having spent quite more than enough time with it down and swinging loose everywhere—when she received another note from Ada that a small group were to be arriving at around five that evening, bringing dinner with them.

The time passed none too quickly for Hecate, who had brought precious little in the way of distraction, and Ada had not sent her books to her yet. While she was not feeling particularly energetic after her long walk that morning, Hecate went out into the front garden with a small basket and pocket knife to see what she could find hidden amongst the overgrowth.

She found a few herb bushes that had run rampant, so gathered some springs of rosemary, thyme, and bay. She had been about to bring in her small harvest when she spotted a cluster of mushrooms just outside the boundaries of the garden. Hooking the basket in the crook of her arm, Hecate went to investigate.

She made her way out of the trellis arch and around the other side of the fence. In a damp patch under a tree were the pale white caps she had seen from a distance. With some effort, she crouched down and nudged them with her pocket knife to examine the gills. These were _agaricus silvicola_—common wood mushrooms—perfectly safe to eat.

The wind had begun to pick up, and the air had the smell of oncoming rain. Hecate had not brought a cloak with her, and so decided that once she had picked the mushrooms she ought to return indoors.

As five o’clock approached, Hecate sat in the kitchen listening to the rain drumming on the window panes, wondering how she should prepare for whomever was to be in attendance. Ada, she knew, would be there, but the others were a mystery. She was a little overwhelmed by the idea that she was to play host to an unknown number of people—although knowing Ada, when she said a ‘small group’, she was not underestimating. 

Hecate knew that Ada had said they were bringing dinner, but she had an hour and a vast amount of nervous energy to spare. She located the potatoes, which were small enough to not need cutting up, and after a quick scrub, set them aside to put in the oven later with some of the fresh rosemary and olive oil, as well as a healthy does of salt and pepper, to roast. The mushrooms did not look as though they would last until tomorrow, but would make a good mushroom sauce. She sliced them finely, and, perched on one of the stools by the oven, browned them in a pan with a little butter until the smell of sizzling mushrooms filled the air. The fridge, she was surprised to discover, did contain the cream that she needed—she thought she was going to have to use flour and milk—so she lowered the heat, and poured the cream over her mushrooms, along with a liberal amount of cracked black pepper and a sprig of thyme. 

Hecate would have said she was a passable cook, but she had always been a brutal judge of her own abilities. She did not get much opportunity to practise, living at Cackle’s when most of her meals were made by Mrs Tapioca during term time. Over the Summers, however, when the castle was vacated except for her and perhaps the odd visitor or maintenance staff, she would take control of the kitchens and enjoy the chance to exercise her creativity at a saucepan rather than a cauldron.

Stirring her mushroom sauce felt as close to stirring a potion as she could hope for. It was calming her nerves somewhat as she waited for her visitors to descend upon her solitude. When the sauce had reduced and become thick, she removed the remains of the thyme, and tasted it. It needed a touch more salt, but otherwise would do.

By this point, it was time to put the potatoes in so they would be ready to take out when the guests arrived. Then Hecate took her cane from where it was resting against the counter and went into the sitting room. She instinctively knew to prepare for the single step down into the room after the threshold. The room seemed the least changed of all, with the step and the fireplace acting as permanent landmarks and meaning the layout of the furniture around the fireplace was more or less as it had been. In Hecate’s childhood, against the window where a cosy sofa now stretched, had been a table at which Hecate had received her lessons on magical theory and history. 

Hecate, finding a box of matches on the mantel, painfully lowered herself next to the fireplace and struck a match into the tinder at the bottom of the wood that had already been piled there. It would take a little while for the fire to get going, but it would be thriving by the time it was needed.

* * *

The arrival of the visitors was heralded by an insistent knocking. The rain was still in full force—Hecate, as swiftly as her aching limbs could manage, made her way to the door and opened it to four dripping travellers, their hats in various stages of droop from being waterlogged.

Ada’s smile—even though she appeared to be more or less drenched through her cloak—was rarely dampened. Hecate moved aside and let her into the kitchen. Behind her, Hextilda Amethyst, tiny and swathed in a heavy cloak, leant on Dimity’s arm. Following in their wake was Miss Nightscribe, the librarian, eyes twinkling with hope behind her half-moon spectacles dotted with glistening raindrops. In her hands was a floral-patterned tin, silvery at the corners where the painted surface had worn away.

“Hecate, how wonderful to see you settled in,” Ada said. “It’s lovely and warm in here after that dreadful weather. Gwen sends her love—we’ve left her and Miss Darkside in charge of the castle.”

Hecate felt the energy of magic crackling through the air as Hextilda shook her bony arms loose from her cloak and dozens of knitted shawls, and waved them back and forth to cast a drying spell. It had felt like a while since she had been so close to a spell as it was cast, particularly by so wizened a witch as the headmistress of Amethyst’s Academy herself.

“Hextilda, you know we’re avoiding magic around Hecate for the time being.” Ada turned as she felt the magic encircle her and the water ripple off her clothing.

“It’s quite all right, Ada,” said Hecate, leaning on her cane with both hands.

“We’re not even sure that other sources of magic are having an effect on her,” Hextilda responded. “And what do you expect us to do—shiver in our wet clothes?”

Hecate felt all at once the pressure of listening to people talking about her without her having anything to say for herself. Even though there were only four of them and they had only just arrived, Hecate was starting to feel drained rapidly.

“HB, what’s that great smell? You haven’t been cooking, have you?” Dimity said.

“The potatoes,” Hecate said, and hurried over to the oven to check the roasting potatoes, before Ada could edge in a word about her not going to any trouble. As she slid the tray out, she saw they were gleaming golden brown and had crisped up nicely, and the rosemary smelled utterly divine.

Dimity came up beside her, removing the casserole dishes she was carrying in a large bag by her side, and transferring them to the counter top. “We brought dinner so you wouldn’t have to put yourself to any trouble.”

“I— I needed something to do,” Hecate replied simply.

“No rest for the wicked, then, HB?”

“No, indeed.” Hecate pointed to the casseroles. “Do these need to be heated?”

“I’ve no idea myself. Ada?” 

Ada came over as Dimity called, and spied the two casserole dishes. “Ah yes. We’ve brought a leek and butternut squash pie and a cauliflower cheese,” she told Hecate. “I thought we would heat them by magic while you were in the sitting room as I don’t think any of us want to wait too long to eat after all that terrible weather outside. Will that be all right with you?”

“I think the caution is unnecessary, but possibly wise at this stage to eliminate possible causes of the— disruption to my magic.”

“Hello, Miss Hardbroom,” the voice Miss Nightscribe interrupted Hecate’s thought. The librarian had been awkwardly standing beside Hextilda without saying anything, and now had approached where Hecate, Dimity, and Ada were hovering over the food.

“Miss Nightscribe,” Hecate said, in what had become her usual greeting, and glanced down at the tin she was still holding.

“I brought you something,” she said hastily, setting the tin down on the counter and prying it open with a metallic clang. Hecate tottered over uneasily, looking over as Miss Nightscribe showed her that the tin was full of sticky lemon-topped shortbread. Hecate’s forehead wrinkled in question.

“They’re lemon slices. I thought you might like something tart, as I never took you for much of a sweet person.” Miss Nightscribe flushed suddenly, before sputtering— “I mean I’m sure you’re a sweet _person_, but not—not partial to—sweet things—sweet foods.”

Hecate felt a panic rise in her chest and tighten around her lungs as Miss Nightscribe’s compliment seemed to touch a nerve. She tried to catch Ada’s eye over Miss Nightscribe’s shoulder, but Ada had bustled off, taking cloaks and hats and hanging them up, muttering something about a dining table. “You have provided me with something to share with my guests. Thank you,” she said, trying to keep her voice level. 

“Now _that_ was awkward,” said Dimity, raising an eyebrow at Hecate when Miss Nightscribe had fled the scene in search of the bathroom. “She’s really into you.”

“You don’t say,” Hecate returned archly. “I admit I did not think it was anything to be concerned over until just now. But perhaps she will be dissuaded by my continued professionalism.”

“I’m not so sure about that, HB. You might have to actually say words to her like a normal human being,” Dimity chuckled. “You doing all right, though? And don’t say you’re ‘fine’. I’m wise to your lies now, Hardbroom.”

Hecate bristled. She knew she had consciously lied to her colleagues, but being caught out on that was a challenge for her strong sense of pride to bear. “I _am_ fine. I have been doing better. But I have also _been_ better. Does that answer your question?”

“That’s honestly more than I expected. Just remember your friends appreciate the truth every once in a while,” Dimity said, her mouth twisting in a discerning way.

* * *

Ada and Hextilda had set up a dining table and five chairs in the sitting room, which was now quite comfortably warm, with the roaring fire casting a glow over the room amidst the blustery rain outside. When all components of the meal had been made piping hot and brought through, and a large teapot set down to brew, everyone joined the table for the hearty meal.

“Thank you all for coming,” Hecate said graciously to the assembled party.

“We wanted to make sure you felt taken care of,” Ada replied warmly. 

“Damn, HB, these potatoes are really something else! And that mushroom sauce.” Dimity heaped a second portion of everything on her plate. “Maybe we’ve been missing a trick. We should send you to the kitchens instead of keeping you locked up in your potions dungeon.”

Hecate said nothing. 

The potatoes, heaped in an stoneware dish, were buttery-soft on the inside and fragrant with rosemary, with the zing of the salt and pepper on the crisp outsides. They were the perfect companion to the creamy cauliflower cheese, the flavour of which was rounded out with a touch of nutmeg, and the moreish flaky pastry of the leek and butternut squash pie. The mushroom sauce went rather well with everything, by some providence. Hecate had been prepared for it to have been useless, but it was an addition that everyone complimented.

The discussion of the table turned to Hecate’s magic, much to her abashment. Being the main subject of conversation was making her very ill at ease, but weighing the alternative—everything being spoken about and arranged without her present, and where she could not give her consent—she would put up with this.

“Better get Miss Pentangle to take another look at that wound she healed,” Hextilda warned, her watery eyes cast askance at Hecate from the opposite side of the table. “It’s left a scar, hasn’t it? That’s the touch of dark magic.”

Hecate could only nod silently. She thought of the scar, like a blossom of dark purple just above her breast—it did not bother her that she bore a scar for what she did, but it was unusual that a wound, even of that severity, would leave a scar after being healed by magic.

“With your permission, Hecate, I can ask her to visit?” Ada glanced at Hecate, her voice soft. “She is one of the most skilful healing witches we know.”

“It seems it may be necessary,” Hecate responded neutrally. 

“What do you know about wounds caused by dark magic, Hextilda?” Ada asked, folding her hands in front of her.

“They can be tricky,” Hextilda replied. “And left untreated, have some serious implications.”

“Well we’ve already seen that much,” Dimity commented.

Hextilda swatted at Dimity’s shoulder at her dry remark. “Taking a stab, I’d say Miss Pentangle’s spell worked insofar as it closed the physical wound. In the moment I reckon she wouldn’t have considered the magical damage.”

“The wound would have been fatal had she not reacted instinctively,” Hecate said, determinedly trying to keep her account clinical, wishing that Dimity and Miss Nightscribe were not there, but knew it was important to take advantage of the presence of Miss Amethyst. “And to her credit, I am alive.”

“Too right,” Hextilda cackled throatily, tapping the table with her sharp fingernails. “If Pippa had hesitated, Ada would be looking in the classifieds of the _Cauldron Review_ for a new potions mistress.”

“As it remains, she may have to,” Hecate muttered.

“Don’t be silly, my dear,” Hextilda scolded her. “A reworking of the spell may be all that’s needed.”

“Is that all?” Dimity asked incredulously.

“It _may_ be. That alone might not be enough. But it’s worth a try.” Hextilda said, picking up the last roast potato between her knobbly fingers and taking a bite out of it like an apple.

“Anything’s worth a try for you, Hecate,” said Ada, patting Hecate’s hand on the table.

* * *

Once the table was cleared away, they had another round of tea and some of the lemon slices that Miss Nightscribe had brought. Hecate abstained, claiming to be full from the meal. Ada and Dimity tag-teamed the dishes; Ada animated the brush in the sink full of hot sudsy water to clean, and the dish towels to dry, while Dimity shot hovering charms at each dried piece of crockery or cutlery to send them sailing safely back into the cupboards and drawers. The magic cleansing of the dishes was to Hecate’s great relief since it would have been a task all on her own, yet it was also to her _grief_ at her own uselessness—everyone seemed all too happy to help her now, but when they were gone, she would again have to do everything the Ordinary way, which was as much of a time-waste as it was incredibly tiresome.

At last, it seemed as though everyone was ready to depart. It was not too late, Hecate noticed with a wave of reassurance, so that she could have a chamomile infusion alone to relax after the business of the evening before bed—and a book, if she could persuade—

“Ada, one last thing before you go—”

Ada looked back at her pleasantly. “Anything, Hecate.”

“Do remember to send the books on the list I gave you.”

Ada nodded while she fastened her cloak. “Of course I will. Tonight, as soon as I get back to the castle.”

“Thank you, Ada.”

Hecate had been determinedly not making eye contact with Miss Nightscribe all throughout the dinner. It had helped that they were on the same side of the table with Ada between them. It had not escaped her notice that Miss Nightscribe hadn’t uttered a single word since her awkward comment about Hecate being a ‘sweet person’ and hoped that she would not say anything more as she was departing.

However, it seemed that as Ada, Dimity, and Hextilda were all independently leaving one by one, Miss Nightscribe was lingering behind. Hecate wished that she would simply go so that she could have some peace and quiet, but Miss Nightscribe stood there, one hand wrapped tightly around her other elbow.

Hecate thought that there was nothing she could do but try to steer her towards the door. “I should thank you for your attentiveness while I was recovering, and hope I will be able to return the favour soon.”

“Y-you’re welcome,” replied Miss Nightscribe. “It was a pleasure to be helpful to you.” She touched her hand to Hecate’s forearm, who recoiled immediately as if she had been stung.

“Do not touch me,” Hecate snapped. The air suddenly hung thick between them, and Hecate locked her with a piercing stare.

“Who— who hurt you?” Miss Nightscribe said, taking a step towards Hecate.

Hecate shrank back from the hand that reached out towards her, tensing her shoulders up as if to guard herself. With her voice barely above a hiss, she said, “That is strictly none of your business, Miss Nightscribe. Thank you for the lemon slices and your company, but good night,” she said pointedly, and looked meaningfully at the door.

* * *

A knocking at the door sent Hecate’s heart into her throat. She struggled not to open it straight away—she had been waiting in the kitchen, barely reading the book she had selected from those Ada had sent over, and had heard Pippa land outside. She was already beside the door, attempting to collect herself before she opened it. It was a few days since the dinner party on her first night at Westwood Lodge, and Ada had reached out to Miss Pentangle to request her presence to look over her wound. Hecate was less than eager for this encounter, since her examination would require some removal of clothing, and Hecate felt doing so in Pippa’s presence would expose more than just some skin.

“Hecate—”

Pippa was standing in the doorway, in a thick pink wool overcoat with a huge bundle of pale pink scarf wrapped around her neck, her face silhouetted in shadow. “I don’t want to make you uncomfortable by being here,” she said, not quite meeting Hecate’s eyes. The last time they had met, Hecate had blankly ignored her and had had to transfer out to keep herself from exploding with uncontrolled magic. It was only natural that Pippa would feel awkward.

“No, I think I owe you an apology,” Hecate muttered, her voice cracking with emotion, and shifting herself to one side of the door to allow her entry. “Would you like a cup of tea?”

Pippa’s face broke into a sad smile as she entered, shrugging out of her coat and hanging it on the coat stand by the door, revealing a pink cotton shirt tucked into some high-waisted black trousers. “You realise we’re meant to be taking care of you, don’t you? Under strict instructions from Ada herself.”

“Perhaps,” said Hecate. “But I would like to do this for you.”

Hecate walked over to the kitchen as Pippa unlooped her scarf several times around her head. Hooking her cane over the opposite arm, she filled the kettle from the tap, set it upon its stand, and flicked the switch, before taking a teapot and some cups and saucers out of the glass-fronted crockery cupboard and setting them on a tea tray.

“They fitted the kitchen with electricity for me, would you believe,” Hecate said over the sound of the kettle starting, locating a tin of first flush Darjeeling. “I have become quite the dab hand at operating an electric kettle.”

Pippa smiled and shook her head at Hecate. “I know. I was one of the witches involved in revamping the lodge for your use.” Hecate was so stunned at this revelation that even though the kettle had finished boiling, she did not immediately react.

“W-what?”

“Ada asked me. You know how she is—I couldn’t say no. She said she needed my eye.”

“Well, I suppose it is— tasteful,” Hecate selected her words carefully. “Even if it is not to my particular taste.”

Pippa laughed. “Perhaps I went a bit overboard with the gold.”

“It is quite charming in a way. And it isn’t pink,” Hecate admitted, and then suddenly became aware that the tea she was supposed to have been making had not yet progressed beyond the boiling water stage. She hurried over to the kettle and poured a little hot water in the teapot, and swirled the water around inside to heat it.

“You don’t have to make it on your own,” Pippa said, raising her eyebrows.

“Do you know how to brew tea properly from loose leaf tea?”

“Well, no, I suppose not,” Pippa said, and crossed to the fridge, opening it and peering inside. “Well at least I can help by finding— where’s your milk?”

“Milk with _first flush_ Darjeeling? You might as well cast my copy of the Witches’ Code into the fireplace,” said Hecate, horrified.

Pippa closed the fridge and sighed. “Goodness Hecate. It’s just tea.”

_Just tea._ Hecate closed her eyes painfully. She took a moment to breathe before pouring the water out of the teapot and measuring out some of her precious Darjeeling into it. It was as the spoon delved into the leaves that she realised with a twist in her stomach that she had meant to be apologising to Pippa, and here she was causing another argument between them. Moreover, the impatience and disdain she was displaying towards Pippa was just the sort of behaviour Pippa had accused her of holding towards her own students. Hecate held back the tone of outrage that had threatened to break through, instead responding, “Darjeeling has such a delicate flavour that milk would sully the floral characteristics. First flush Darjeeling is produced in the springtime, and is the mildest.”

“I honestly don’t think I’ve ever tried Darjeeling, let alone first flush,” Pippa said cautiously, twisting her hands together as Hecate poured the water from the kettle into the teapot and put a black and grey ribbed tea cosy over it and set it on the tray. “I enjoy a good cup of tea, of course, but I’m not as experienced as you.”

Hecate considered that she ought to make a concerted effort to not appear inflexible. She thought with a sudden rush of feeling that this was their first real private conversation in decades— “If it really is not to your taste, I will not begrudge you a spot of milk. But if you would try it without, just to see what it can be like…”

“I would love to try it exactly how you would drink it,” Pippa replied, her voice warming to Hecate’s amenable change of heart. Hecate felt a blush rising to her cheeks, and hoped Pippa would not notice. “Now, can I at least help you with the tea tray?”

Hecate nodded stiffly, and Pippa picked up the laden tea tray, and carried it through to the sitting room. Hecate lowered herself carefully onto one of the armchairs by the empty fireplace as Pippa placed the tray on the low table.

“Oh, it’s a bit chilly in here, isn’t it?” Pippa said, giving a slightly exaggerated shiver.

“The house was always cooler on this side, because it rarely gets much sun. I can light the fire if you would like.” Hecate said, unhooking the cane from the arm and making to stand up again from the armchair.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Hecate. I’ll get it,” Pippa said, and picked up the box of matches from the mantlepiece and squatted down. She struck a match and lit the tinder under the logs. “I’m glad someone else built this fire. I wouldn’t have a clue where to start.”

“You’re not using magic?”

Pippa shook her head and smiled. “While we’re not sure what’s wrong with your magic, we are going to try to limit its use around you. I don’t know if it’ll make much difference, honestly, but it’s worth a try until we can run some tests.” She rose to her feet and put the matches back, before settling in the armchair.

Out of the shadows, Morgana suddenly hopped into Pippa’s lap, catching her off-guard. “Oh, hello there Morgana,” she smiled, letting the cat rub her face over her knuckles. “Do you suppose she remembers me?”

“Of course she remembers you, Pippa,” Hecate returned, a little muted. “I do not think cats forget people as easily as people forget each other.”

Pippa continued to fuss Morgana, combing her fingers through her long silky fur. Hecate supposed she had not heard her comment, which was almost certainly for the best. She shifted forwards in her seat, and began pouring the tea for them both, Pippa’s first. The beautiful honeyed amber colour of the tea reminded Hecate of Pippa’s eyes when they shone in the sun— she had to force that particular image out of her head as she passed the cup and saucer over.

Pippa held the cup with interest and breathed in the aroma. “It’s quite pale. And it does smell good.”

Hecate had to consciously try not to watch Pippa as she tried a sip of the tea. The way her eyelashes closed together—the dark line of her eyeliner—the way her lips met the rim of the cup— Hecate _tried_ not to watch, but her success in that endeavour was clearly very limited.

“Do you like it?” Hecate asked, barely able to get her voice to sound above a whisper.

Pippa smiled. “It’s much more subtle than I thought it would be, but at the same time complex.”

The corner of Hecate’s mouth twitched into a partial smile and she took a sip of her own tea to hide it. The flavour was blissful, comforting, and the fact that Pippa was sharing in this experience with her meant more than she felt she could express in words.

“I wanted to apologise to you,” Hecate said. “When we last met— I was not myself, and I am sorry that I caused such a disturbance, after you travelled to see me—”

Pippa shrugged. “I did turn up unannounced. I shouldn’t have assumed that you’d be ready to see me right away. But I was so worried when no one told me that you had woken up and I needed to know whether you were—”

“That was my doing. I told Ada you were not to be contacted. I was too proud to face you, after you saved my life with your healing magic, and brought me up to the castle—”

“—do you remember that? When I took you up to the castle?”

“No,” Hecate replied, perhaps a little too quickly to sound convincing. It was not exactly a lie, since she only had one fragment of a memory, but she could not quite think of a casual way to say, _I remember leaning on your shoulder and nuzzling into your gorgeous hair as you held me._ “Miss Drill told me you used her broomstick to take me back. So it appears I have a lot to be grateful to you for.”

“But Hecate, you saved _my_ life first,” Pippa protested, her hand pausing on Morgana’s head.

“That does not make us even. And now you are making us even _less_ even by taking care of me, creating even more favours that I will have to repay you in turn.” 

“I don’t expect anything in return, Hecate. This isn’t a transaction. We don’t have to be _even_. I’m doing this because—” Pippa cut herself off “—I have a great respect for you.” Yet even as Pippa was speaking, Hecate was so painfully aware of all the wrongs that she had done Pippa in the past. She wished she could make amends as easily as she seemed to insult her.

Hecate swallowed. “I do not want to be in your debt, Pippa,” she said. This was not going as she had planned, nor was it easing the tension between them in the slightest.

Pippa’s eyes narrowed in hurt. “You don’t owe me anything, Hecate. I owe it to Ada to take care of you. And you owe it to Ada to stay alive and well, for the both of you.” 

Hecate sipped her tea. Pippa seemed to know quite a bit about the close friendship she had with Ada. She imagined there was very little chance that the topic could have been avoided while they had been preparing the cottage for her. 

“Ada needs you,” Pippa continued, her voice quavering with pent-up emotion. “For someone to have cracked your frosty exterior, they must be a very special person to you. I see that Ada Cackle is that special person.”

“You are not incorrect,” Hecate responded in a lowered tone to Pippa’s heightened one, quite bewildered by her agitation over this.

“Thank you for the tea. And the apology. I don’t think we need to broach that topic anytime again soon.” She put down the cup and saucer onto the tray and stood up, sending Morgana scampering off in a sulk. “But I suppose we should get down to the real reason I’m here.”

_Oh. That._ Hecate felt her insides go taut. “Yes. Perhaps we had better go upstairs.”

Pippa took Hecate’s empty cup from her—an accidental touching of fingers would have been so easy, but Pippa’s abruptness left no room for lingering touches—and whisked the tray away to the kitchen before Hecate could even pry herself out of the deep armchair. 

They ascended the stairs in silence, Pippa leading the way, and Hecate struggling to keep up with her, leaning heavily on her cane as she took each stair individually.

It was somewhat surreal to see Pippa in her bright pink shirt so confidently entering the room that had been occupied by Mistress Broomhead—such polar opposites they were—but when she saw her within the teal walls with their gold accents, Pippa’s mark on the room was apparent. Hecate was surprised that she had not made the connection that Pippa had been responsible for the decoration before, since she looked so in harmony with the aesthetic that she completed the picture better than Hecate could ever hope to.

Hecate sat on the chair before her dressing table—breathing deeply to try to quell the anxiety welling up within her—sitting up ramrod straight. Pippa stood over her, and from this angle, Hecate felt in a very vulnerable position.

“Ada briefed me on the damage to your magic and your use of the magical suppression potion. When I healed you that night, I was aiming to stabilise you. If I’d have only seen you after you woke up— I would have been able to detect this problem much sooner. Your stoicism may well have been your undoing, Hecate.”

Hecate bowed her head. It was not entirely stoicism that had made her ask Ada promise not to inform Pippa.

“Let me see it, then.”

Hecate obeyed—unbuttoning her black blouse, fumbling with the buttons on the silky placard in her nervousness. The blouse fell open, the bruise-like scar showing starkly against Hecate’s pale skin.

Pippa barely held in her gasp as she saw the mark. It must have looked fairly dramatic to someone who had not seen it as much as Hecate had, but she still could not help but feel ashamed that Pippa’s reaction to seeing her body was one of shock or pity. She knew that she was no beauty to look upon, being angular and aged as she was, but when one had never willingly revealed one’s body to another, the last thing one hoped to feel was ashamed.

“It’s just— so much larger it was. The damage to your magic must be becoming much more severe as time passes,” Pippa said, the traces of coldness in her voice from their earlier conversation evaporating.

Pippa knelt on the carpet next to her, and leaned close to Hecate’s body. Hecate was keenly aware just how near Pippa’s face was to her chest. Hecate’s hands knotted together in her lap, the long nails biting against clammy palms.

As Pippa’s hand grazed against the skin, Hecate flinched as if an electric charge flew from Pippa’s hand to her body, her diaphragm suddenly contracting as those slender fingers passed over the scar. A blush swept over her cheeks. She was reminded of the way that she had jumped when Miss Nightscribe had touched her arm, although for vastly different reasons. Pippa blinked and withdrew her hand.

“Are you all right? Does it hurt at all?”

Trying not to appear as wretchedly flustered as she was, Hecate cleared her throat. “I’m— fine. I merely— It does not hurt. I was— surprised.”

“You will tell me if I’m making you uncomfortable, won’t you, Hecate?” Pippa said, her eyes difficult to read and her brow tensed.

“Of course,” Hecate lied. The tension of their previous conversation was still lingering over them, and there was also the matter of Hecate still being hopelessly attracted to Pippa after all those years, and she had more skin exposed to her than she had ever shown to another human being—so there were few ways in which this would be _not_ uncomfortable. 

“I’ll need to do a Sight spell. Is that all right?”

“Yes,” Hecate said. She had never thought that she would have the opportunity to be in this close proximity to Pippa, and for one perverse moment was glad that she had been so severely affected by the wound that she now had to endure this—although it was so excruciating to bear.

Pippa incanted a spell, and her eyes and fingertips suddenly began to glow with an electric blue light. Hecate knew that Pippa would now be able to see inside her, specifically where the magic flowed—or did not flow.

A whisper of a breath escaped her lips as Pippa’s hand more insistently pressed against the skin around the scar, first over where her breast tissue curved inwards, and then around the other side, edging under her bra strap where the darkness had spread. She hoped Pippa could not feel the heat rising from her skin as she allowed herself to be touched. Hecate could hardly have imagined the most sensual contact that she had experienced would be _Pippa Pentangle_ touching her breast during a medical examination—particularly knowing that even though Pippa was so near, it would be wholly inappropriate for her to reach out and return the touch in any way.

“I’ll need to see your back as well,” Pippa said, straightening up. “I’m sorry— could you—?” Pippa indicated Hecate’s sleeve. 

Hecate withdrew her arm from her left sleeve, letting the blouse hang open over her back. Hecate also adjusted her position in the chair so that Pippa could have access to her without the chair back impeding her. Since she had not been able to see her own back, and particularly since there had been no pain from the physical wound itself, Hecate had not considered that there would be a matching scar on her back where the branch had penetrated her right through her body.

“I can’t believe you pushed me aside and took this instead of me—” Pippa’s voice said from behind her as she began to stroke the perimeter of the other scar.

“Had you been wounded instead of me, I would not have been able to forgiven myself,” Hecate intoned quietly. “Preventing you from being hurt seemed like the most important thing in the moment.” Somehow, facing away from Pippa as she spoke made her feel more open, even though she was all too keenly aware of the sensuality of Pippa’s fingers upon her skin. In the awkward silence, wincing when the sensitivity became too much, she asked, “Why did you tell Ada it was Ethel I was trying to save?”

There was a pause before the answer came. “I wanted it to be true. I didn’t think I could handle you martyring yourself over me. I still can’t—”

Hecate’s heart quavered inside as Pippa’s hand touched her shoulder, fingertips just brushing her clavicle from behind, and slipped the bra strap down, where it hung limp against her upper arm. Then, she smoothed her hand over Hecate’s now bare shoulder, incredibly sensitive where moments ago the bra strap had offered some protection.

“Try to relax your shoulders if you can. You’re holding so much tension in them.”

_I wonder why_, Hecate thought sardonically to herself. As she forced herself to let go of the stiffness under Pippa’s touch, her shoulder began to tremble with the anxiety and intensity of the situation that she had been holding back. The sensation of Pippa’s fingers over her collar bone was almost too much to tolerate—that she could not reach up to meet Pippa’s hand and close her hand over hers was torture—she could be just a moment away from erasing the history between them—or overstepping a boundary that she should never have even thought about violating. 

“Hecate—” Pippa said, withdrawing her hand slowly and stepped around to Hecate’s front. Hecate was startled by the intense blue of the Sight spell still in her eyes as Pippa knelt down again and placed her hand on Hecate’s chest once more— Hecate’s heart fluttered unexpectedly. Pippa briefly glanced up just as Hecate was transfixed by the otherworldly beauty of her glowing eyes and Hecate’s throat closed up in panic.

“Inside you there’s magical scarring,” Pippa said, her hand shaking slightly as she cast her eyes over Hecate’s body. “Magic should flow through you just like blood. But in some places there are intense bursts of energy where the magic has gathered to try to heal itself and become annexed by blockages. When you’ve tried to use magic, pockets of energy have exploded out and caused more ruptures, which would explain your difficulties in casting spells and the degenerative effect on your power.”

Hecate felt her blood run cold, even with Pippa so near, with her hand upon her breast. “Can it be healed?” 

Pippa blinked hard, and the light in her eyes died away, restoring them to their usual golden brown. In the shadowed room, however, they appeared much darker. “I think so, but this is not going to be the work of one spell alone. It will need to be cast regularly and consistently to have the long-term benefits required for a complete recovery.”

Pippa paused, and realised her hand was still on Hecate’s skin. She removed it hastily, and stood up to her full height. “I will have to work on the wording of the original spell, but I’m not sure it’ll be strong enough. I may need a new spell. But I’ll be back. Or if you prefer—I can instruct Ada on how to perform the spells. Whoever is involved in your healing will need to spend a lot of time here.”

Hecate indicated her open blouse. “May I—?”

“Of course,” Pippa said, with a wave of her hand, and turned away towards the window as Hecate re-dressed herself.

“Ada thinks very highly of your abilities as a healing witch, so I think I know what her answer to that would be. As long as this will not interfere with your work.” Hecate tucked her blouse into her skirt and rearranged her belt, and took a quick glance in the mirror to inspect herself. 

“Stop being ridiculous, Hecate. I can take time off if I need to. That’s one of the perks of being headmistress of your own school.”

Hecate stood with aid of her cane, considering the new knowledge about her magic. Pippa followed her downstairs to the kitchen.

“Will you— will you be staying for lunch?” A dozen or so lunch-appropriate foods she could quickly prepare dashed through her mind.

“I had really best get back to Pentangle’s. I have a staff meeting in the afternoon so I ought to get on my broomstick if I don’t want to be late.” Pippa hurriedly took her coat from the stand by the door, and put it on.

“Goodbye, Pippa,” Hecate said, feeling the words inadequate to convey the sentiment she so desperately desired to impart.

“Bye,” Pippa said, and closed the door with a surprising amount of force.

Hecate crossed to the coat stand, where a pale pink scarf lay in a heap on the floor where it had fallen. She stooped to pick it up, and the fabric draped in elegant folds from her hand as she held it. Hecate recalled all the times Pippa had ‘accidentally’ left things behind in her room on her many late-night visits. This time, however, Hecate had no idea if this was an accidental slip or the mind or an intentional planting of herself into Hecate’s life. Either way, it seemed that she would return—if she did not change her mind about what she had said. The confusion of uncertainty filled her eyes as she curled her fingers into the scarf, and she pressed her face into its softness, breathing in Pippa’s scent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think I intended this chapter to be shorter than the previous one but it's almost the same length, so I'm really sorry. It's also quite plot-light, so apologies for that too. 
> 
> I think it's fairly obvious why I picked that particular quotation for this chapter.
> 
> (Really, I had An Plot planned but had to shift it to next chapter because this became tOO LONG and it ended up not fitting in anywhere satisfactory because of the way some events played out here.)
> 
> But. There's SENSUALITY. Isn't that what we've all been in this for, really?? Please feel free to notice how there's literally no medical reason for the last time that Pippa lays her hand on Hecate's chest. Hecate is Too Oblivious to notice this but we're all seeing it, right???
> 
> I've bumped up the rating from Teen to Mature to be on the safe side for a couple of reasons (i.e. abuse, and the Slightly Racy Stuff).
> 
> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> Heathcliff  
@heathtrash on tumblr & twitter


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Hecate processes Pippa's diagnosis of the damage to her magic, she faces the prospect of its treatment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I lost it, of course; one always does lose the things one values most.”  
Vita Sackville-West, _All Passion Spent_

Hecate pressed her fingers into the scarf Pippa had left. She was due to return today. Hecate did not know where to leave the scarf in the meantime; slung over the coat stand looked strange—domestic—as if Pippa were a part of the household—in its lifeblood. Hanging up beside her cloak, her overcoat, her hat—it simply looked out of place. Or perhaps she was the one out of place, since her own black clothing was so striking against the softness of the cottage that Pippa herself had decorated.

She had thus far settled for it being folded neatly on the side-table by the door, next to the bowl of keys. However, Morgana had the tendency to leap up there and curl up on it, when Hecate would sit in the kitchen to read or prepare meals. Hecate was reluctant to shoo Morgana from places she had chosen to sit—even if that place _did_ happen to be the seat from which she may have just arisen—but her heart had almost stopped when Morgana made to knead her paws on the scarf, worried that her sharp claws would make ribbons of the fine knit fabric. It was bad enough that Morgana was betraying her innermost feelings by brazenly rubbing her head all over it, solidly planting her affection where Hecate could not. 

Hecate was also not sure how she would explain all the cat hair that was collecting on it. Had she control over her powers, she would merely vanish the cat hair away, but she could not else risk further damage to her powers—or worse, risk incinerating Pippa Pentangle’s angelically soft pink scarf.

Since Pippa had left, she had tried anything to distract from the memory of those damned hands on her skin. Even though Pippa was merely doing what she was called upon to do, there had been a warmth in her action—some kind of strong emotion that had at least _felt_ like it had left a mark. No; she had simply been projecting her own feelings onto what was merely routine healing magic—but Hecate’s mind kept reflecting on the way Pippa’s hand had lingered on her chest—slipping her bra strap off her shoulder—how her own heart had been pounding in response—how Pippa must have felt that ridiculous heart. 

Hecate needed to talk some sense into herself. Her heart had been beating so hard because she had not felt the touch of another for quite some time. That was all. Fear and longing—yet not longing for anyone in particular. The residual feelings she may have had for Pippa a long time ago—those were creating the illusion that it was she who was the object of her desire, when her desire was merely—for some form of comfort, perhaps.

With the distance she now had from being half-naked under Pippa’s hands, she could now see that it was the fact of the intimate nature of the encounter that had clouded her vision. Was she really so base as to have her head turned by the briefest moment of skin-on-skin contact? She shuddered at the thought. She, a disciplined witch, could be compromised so effortlessly? It was shameful. 

Pippa was certainly not even interested in her in that way. Hecate had seen to that when she had ended their relationship some twenty-five years ago. If anything, Pippa’s continually unpredictable behaviour was a sign of her pain over how Hecate had treated her—or more likely, discomfort because she was undoubtedly involved in some new romantic entanglement. 

Whatever was the case, Hecate was not to think on it for a moment longer. It was neither her business to speculate, nor did the topic interest her in the slightest. A single, past _grande passion_—if she could even call it that—was no reason to lose her adult head. A schoolgirl crush—that had been what Mistress Broomhead had decried it as, as she had torn up one of the letters that Pippa had sent her over the Summer holidays. At the time it had felt like a piece of her soul had been rent asunder. Gradually, Mistress Broomhead had convinced her that young witches should not trouble themselves with thoughts of romance—particularly those who wished to become truly formidable witches, but especially Hecate, for whom relationships of a romantic nature had the potential to create unwanted awkwardness in close quarters when they would inevitably end, due to her being confined to the same mountain. Yet now, it felt like—

Hecate guiltily realised her hands were still caressing Pippa’s scarf. She re-folded it and put it in one of the empty drawers in the kitchen.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon when Hecate suddenly shaken from her reverie by a tentative knock at the door. Her eyes widened in shock at once, as she realised she was completely unprepared for Pippa’s arrival—which seemed impossible, given the time she had allocated herself for that—_completely normal_ amount of—preparation for a guest’s arrival. It had nothing to do with any emotional response.

She glanced at the clock on her writing desk. If Pippa it was at the door, she was over two hours early, which was highly un-Pippa-like behaviour. Hecate made her way as quickly as she could manage to the dressing table, where she touched up her lipstick and smoothed back a wisp of hair.

She hobbled downstairs—then, a sharp pain in her chest just before she reached the final step, and just caught herself on the banister, her cane clattering to the floor. Hecate let out the barest of whimpers as the pain shot like lightning cascading down one arm, before it was gone, leaving a lingering ache. 

Hecate knew Pippa would be waiting, and she had already wasted enough time getting downstairs. She picked up her cane, proceeded to the door, and opened it, steeling herself.

Not one, but three figures were on the front doorstep. Three student-sized figures holding broomsticks.

“Girls!” exclaimed Hecate, immediately straightening up, overwhelming concern mingled with outrage for the trio replacing the pain she had been struck by just moments ago.

“H-hello, Miss Hardbroom,” muttered Enid uneasily. She and Maud were exchanging worried looks, while Mildred in the middle was virtually beaming.

“We’ve come to visit you,” said Mildred, leaning her broomstick against the outside stone wall next to the door.

Hecate surveyed the three of them. They were in correct school uniform, and Mildred had clearly taken the effort to look somewhat less scruffy than usual. Even her bootlaces were tied. “And does Miss Cackle know you have come here?” 

“We’re still technically on school grounds,” Mildred said, twisting her mouth in a guilty expression.

“Of that,” Hecate said, dangerously close to boiling point, “I am _well_ aware, Mildred Hubble.”

“But no, we didn’t tell Miss Cackle,” Maud said in a rush, her words blending together as if saying it all at once would lessen the impact somehow.

“We mentioned it to Miss Drill, and she said it would be all right,” Enid chimed in. “Theoretically, if we were to visit you.”

_Drill, you absolute— meddler._ “And did Miss Drill tell you the location of my convalescent home?”

“Nope, we worked that out all on our own!” Mildred grinned, showing Hecate a bit of paper that had been crushed into her pocket. It was a hand-drawn copy of a map. “Found this old map of Cackle’s grounds in the library.”

The three pupils—while certainly not the pupils she might have expected to turn up—looking half appealingly, half terrified—had obviously gone to some trouble to make this journey. Hecate sighed. 

“For your efforts in finding me, you may stay for one—_one_—cup of tea each. Then you will return to the castle straight away. No detours. What have I told you about entering the forest without permission?”

“That we’re not to do it?” Mildred said.

“Quite.”

Hecate stood aside, and let them into the kitchen. The girls looked around in awe at the place, complimenting the ‘fancy digs’ that Miss Hardbroom had. She indicated for them to sit at the kitchen island while she prepared the tea.

“She’s really mad we’ve come,” Enid muttered under her breath.

“I am not, as you say, Enid, _mad_, and nor have I lost my hearing. My magic is simply taking longer to heal than we expected,” Hecate shot sharply over her shoulder.

Hecate could almost hear the girls swallow in fear as they were reminded of how formidable their form mistress could be. 

She decided to use the glass teapot, since she would be using chamomile flowers and fresh herbs, and they made an attractive spectacle that the girls might find entertaining. Hecate shakily took the tea tray over, her cane hooked over her arm, not wishing to worry the girls with her ailing health. She could walk a short way unassisted, but it was uncomfortable. Setting the tray down before them, Hecate took her seat on the opposite side to them. It felt strange sharing a table with her students, when she was so used to commanding them from behind a desk.

Enid took a look at the chamomile flowers blooming with water and the swirl of green leaves inside and wrinkled her nose. “What’s this, Miss Hardbroom?”

“It is an infusion of chamomile, lemon balm, and peppermint. You may sweeten it with a little honey if you wish,” Hecate said sniffily, indicating the honey pot.

The particular blend she had chosen was as much a hot drink to warm up the three students as it was an anti-anxiety blend for herself, to quell her nerves over Pippa’s upcoming visit. As she considered this, she thought that she might as well make this visit an educational one.

“You might recognise that these herbs are ones that we use in making potions, but have non-magical applications. The herbs have properties on their own that can have health benefits, which we can use in cooking or herbal infusions. While it is more effective when amplified with a spell, a simple pot of tea can bring relief to anxiety, an upset stomach, or even pain relief.”

Hecate poured four cups of the clear yellow tea, ending with her own. The girls all drizzled honey into their cups. Mildred licked her spoon, and before Hecate could stop her, plunged the licked spoon directly back into the honey pot for some more. Hecate held back the exasperated comment she was about to make and raised her teacup to her lips stiffly.

“Miss Hardbroom, we brought you some things,” Mildred said, and pulled her school bag up onto the counter. 

Hecate half expected Mildred’s hopeless cat, Tabby, to tumble out. Instead, Mildred brought out a long, shallow wooden box, which she folded out. It was a chess set—one from the school’s recreation cupboard.

“I just thought you might like a game to play while you’re here,” Mildred explained. “Maybe it was silly—you’d need someone to play with. I’m sure one of us wouldn’t mind playing against you, if you like?”

Hecate had to hold back quite a different emotion as she looked at the chess pieces scattered inside the board. She blinked her shining eyes. “Thank you, Mildred. That was—a kind thought. I do have visitors almost every day, so you needn’t worry.”

“Oh,” Mildred responded, and perhaps it was Hecate’s imagination, but she seemed a little crestfallen.

“But as long as you have permission from Miss Cackle, you are welcome to arrange a visit to challenge me to a game of chess,” Hecate added. It was audacious that the girl thought she would have a chance at being a suitable chess opponent, but it was likely that Mildred had no idea of Hecate’s particular connection to the game.

Enid ducked under the table, pulled something out of her bag, and put it on the table. Hecate breathed in sharply as she took in the label.

“Enid Nightshade, please explain where you acquired _this_?” she hissed, glaring icy daggers at the girl, her voice cold enough to freeze the tears that had welled up in her eyes in their tracks.

“Um,” Enid said, emboldened by her own cheekiness. “We found it in the kitchens.”

Maud cut in. “Miss Tapioca _said_ we could take it for you. She seemed to think it was a great idea. What is it?”

“It is an alcoholic beverage,” replied Hecate, closing her eyes in dismay. What would the parents think if they knew that students had been allowed to take alcohol from the kitchens? What if they had _opened_ it on the way here? “You are not to take alcohol from the kitchens again. A teacher should really have accompanied you.”

“Sorry, Miss Hardbroom,” chorused the girls.

The girls took their time with their single cup of tea that Hecate had permitted them to have. They answered Hecate’s probing questions about Miss Darkside and how they had been getting on in the potions lab. They all tried to reassure their teacher that Miss Darkside was doing her job properly, while struggling to make appropriate comments about how strict the substitute teacher was. It almost sounded to Hecate as if they missed her by comparison to the uncompromising Miss Darkside. The twitch of a smile played at the corner of her mouth as Mildred claimed how ‘unfair’ it was that she was giving them such challenging homework essays. 

Mildred asked if Miss Hardbroom wanted to play chess now, and Hecate agreed—if only to prepare the girl for what she was up against. Hecate managed to checkmate her in two moves, which told her that the girl knew either very little about chess or was being very foolhardy indeed. However, Hecate had a way of reading students, and Mildred’s very transparent shock felt as though it was genuine. She allowed the girls to all team up against her, and they played a slightly longer match, in which Hecate tried hard not to defeat them as brutally fast, making a few calculated mistakes to see if they would notice. They did not, on the whole.

“I can teach you the principles of chess, if you wish,” Hecate offered at the end of the match, as Mildred toppled all of the chess pieces over to set up the board again.

During the next match, Hecate told them about the strengths and weaknesses of each piece, the best methods to start, and the ways an opponent might respond to certain moves. She was certain they were not taking anything in, but they seemed excitable over getting to play against their strict form mistress and showed admirable teamwork skills.

At that moment, a knock interrupted Hecate’s thoughts completely, and her heart shot into her throat. 

“Ah—girls, I have another visitor now. It is time for you to get going. You would not want to be late for dinner.”

Hecate strove not to show emotion on her face as she got to her feet and shuffled over in what she hoped was a nonchalant manner, and fumbled over the door latch, before managing to open the door. There stood Pippa, wearing one of her usual spectacular outfits—a pink jacket adorned with glittering beads on the lapels, ruffled white blouse, a pink pencil skirt, and her pointed hat, carrying a satchel.

“Oh Hecate— I see you already have visitors. Is this a bad time? I can come back later?”

“No, no, Miss Pentangle,” Hecate said, pointedly looking at the girls, who had all leapt to their feet when they realised who it was. “The girls were just leaving. It is high time they get back to the castle.”

“Is that—a new shade of lipstick, Miss Hardbroom?” Enid interrupted, passing a scrutinising look between Miss Hardbroom and Miss Pentangle.

Hecate shot her a look at the impertinent question. Yet—she was not currently their teacher, technically. It was all she could do not to will the ground to swallow her whole. “It is not,” she said, avoiding Pippa’s look. She felt sure that Pippa was smiling.

Hecate let Pippa inside. The girls were—hopefully—enamoured enough with Pippa’s star quality that they did not notice Hecate’s cheeks start to burn.

“Goodbye, girls. Fly safely. And remember—no detours on the way back.”

The girls all said their goodbyes, and bumbled out of the door. Hecate snapped the door shut on the hushed conversation the trio had already started to have over why Miss Pentangle of all people would be visiting Miss Hardbroom.

Pippa raised her eyebrows at Hecate as she stretched to put her hat on a hook of the coat stand and began to unclasp her cape. “You let the students visit you? Is this a brand new Hecate Hardbroom? I don’t know her.”

“This was _not_ my idea,” Hecate returned archly. “They turned up out of the blue.”

Pippa sauntered over to the kitchen island, her hand playing across the granite, and her face lit up at the sight of the chess set. “White isn’t doing so well—was that you?”

“You know perfectly well I always pick black,” Hecate said quietly, a tremor shaking her voice slightly as she met Pippa’s eyes over the island.

“And what’s this,” Pippa laughed, apparently missing the intensity of Hecate’s comment, and picking up the bottle. “Sherry! I never took you for much of a drinker. I hope you didn’t offer the girls any.”

“They _brought_ it—some harebrained scheme of Miss Tapioca’s, allegedly. I am not sure I believe them. And—” Hecate felt herself turn pink “—there is nothing wrong with the odd glass of sherry once of an evening.”

“Of course not,” Pippa giggled, hand toying at her necklace. “Gosh, what cheeky students bringing you alcohol. I didn’t know there was any allowed on school grounds.”

“Ada has a rather fine bottle of single malt hidden in the bookshelf in her office,” Hecate said with a fond smile.

“Does she,” Pippa said, her voice low with approval. “A woman of impeccable taste, that Ada Cackle.” Hecate could feel Pippa’s eyes on her lips. “That _is_ a new shade of lipstick, isn’t it? Unlike you to change your style.”

Hecate’s heart quickened under her pocket watch. “It is not new. It is one I have not worn in a while. I must have packed it by mistake.” It was only half a lie. She had deliberated for hours over which colour of lipstick to wear today in light of Pippa’s visit, but then accidentally applied this one and uncharacteristically decided to let fate play its course. She wished she had not risked it—it was almost the shade of Pippa’s skirt. She had not worn it very often, once she realised exactly why she had been drawn to it in the first place.

“Well, it looks gorgeous on you.” Pippa turned away. “I’m sorry, could I use your bathroom?”

“Of course,” Hecate said. Flustered could not cover the range of emotion she was experiencing. As Pippa ascended the stairs out of sight, she set about tidying away the used cups and saucers—the tragically sullied honey pot—and the teapot. Practical activity would diffuse the disarray that had been made of her thoughts by that one word.

_Gorgeous_. Pippa had said the lipstick looked _gorgeous_ on her. That was a word she was not used to associating with herself—it had not, not ever, been used to describe her. Hecate was not a gorgeous person, and certainly not one whom others found gorgeous. The most she could say for herself was that she was neat and presentable. Any youth or beauty that she may have ever possessed had faded with the passing of the years she had spent here. But _gorgeous_? Impossible. Perhaps Pippa liked it because it was in her signature pink. That had to be the reason behind her comment. 

A flash of that same pink caught her attention out of the corner of her eye—Pippa appeared, halfway down the staircase. “I thought we should make a start? I just need to fetch my bag—”

Pippa descended to the kitchen, where she had deposited her satchel. Potions bottles clinked together within as she picked it up. Anxiety built again in Hecate’s chest as she anticipated a repeat of that last intimate encounter they had had.

They returned to Hecate’s bedchamber. Pippa directed her to sit in the chair by the dressing table once more. It was all too much like when Pippa was last here—Hecate feeling her breath come in shallow falls—Pippa standing over her, seeming much taller than she was in reality.

“I’m sorry, this will be a little bit trial-and-error, but I’m confident at least one of these spells should work,” Pippa said, setting out the potions in a line on Hecate’s dressing table. “I’m afraid I’m hardly as skilled at potions as you, Hecate. I’m much better at healing spells with more modern techniques, but everything is worth a try. I’ve also prepared a few chants, of course.”

A sinking feeling weighed down upon Hecate. Pippa’s confidence and surety were having the opposite effect on Hecate. She could hear in her voice the expectation and pressure Pippa was putting on her healing magic to work. It was a lot for one person to bear, and Hecate was deeply concerned lest none of the solutions should work. If none of the twelve little bottles contained the cure Pippa hoped she would find—

“You won’t need to take anything off today,” Pippa said hastily as Hecate’s fingers went to the buttons at her throat. 

Hecate inwardly felt a brief respite. “If none of these work, you must not feel discouraged, Pippa.”

“I won’t,” Pippa said brightly, shrugging out of her beaded jacket and hanging it on the back of the chair at the desk, leaving her in her ruffled blouse. The sleeves had cuffs almost to the elbow, buttoned closely over her forearms and extending past the wrist. Hecate tried not to imagine undoing each line of buttons of those cuffs to expose the soft skin of her wrists. “I’ll use a Sight spell to make a detailed analysis, and to monitor the changes that the potions have. Okay?”

Pippa’s eyes and fingertips glowed blue as she cast the Sight spell, and she gazed over Hecate’s form. Hecate sat very still, trying not to feel incredibly awkward as Pippa looked inside her, determinedly not looking at the buttons on her sleeves. At least this time she was allowed to keep her clothes on. Pippa trailed her glowing fingers over where the scar was, making notes in a notebook every now and then while Hecate’s heart hammered under her shirt.

“So, have you used any of the herbal bath salts?” Pippa said, breaking the silence.

“I do not find much time for soaking in baths,” Hecate said stiffly.

“They would help you relax,” Pippa said, squeezing Hecate’s shoulders with her hands. Through the fabric, the touch did not feel as electric as it had on her bare skin, but it was still enough to send goosebumps rippling down her arms. “Rest and relaxation are just as important for your recovery as any healing spell.”

“I relax by doing useful work,” Hecate said, annunciating her words carefully, “not by lying about in hot water doing nothing.”

“And that’s worked _so well_ for you so far, hasn’t it?” Pippa pressed her, not unkindly. 

Hecate pursed her lips.

“Try it. I made them with my own fair hands,” she smiled. “You wouldn’t want my efforts to have gone to waste, would you?”

Hecate grumbled an assent. 

“Right, I think we’re about ready to start our little experiment! How about— this one?” Pippa picked up a ruby red potion. 

Pippa uncorked the potion, and said the accompanying spell in a commanding tone that Hecate was not used to hearing from her. A swirl of stars enveloped Hecate, and she felt a mild warm sensation in her palms.

Pippa, eyes still bright with the Sight spell, watched Hecate with hope. “Nothing different, hmm. Perhaps another.”

* * *

She tried each of the potions in turn. All were unsuccessful. Hecate was beginning to grow restless, if only because Pippa’s optimism was beginning to sour and the telltale wrinkle between her eyebrows was becoming more pronounced with each failure. 

“It’s not that it’s not having _enough_ of an effect. None of them has had any effect _at all_. I can’t— I can’t make anything happen between the blockages. Or even reduce the pockets of built-up magic.”

“You haven’t tried the chants yet,” Hecate reminded her, in a soft voice.

Pippa nodded, and checked her notebook again. She took a deep breath, and her entire posture changed as she prepared to begin the chant. Hecate had not heard Pippa sing for decades—not this close, at least—and her nerves were tangled inside her in anticipation.

Pippa’s nose began to turn pink, and Hecate knew from experience that she was closer to bursting into tears rather than song. She turned away from Hecate and clenched her fists.

“I’m so sorry—” Pippa said, sitting heavily on the edge of the bed, hand to her forehead in defeat. “I’m just— I’m having difficulty making a connection today. Modern magic isn’t always reliable.”

Hecate hadn’t wanted to be right. She knew that modern magic relied upon one’s emotional connection, and Pippa had given so much of herself already.

“You don’t mind if I lie down for a bit? I’m feeling awfully spent,” Pippa said, wiping away her tears.

“Of course. You can—” _use the spare room_, Hecate had been about to finish, but Pippa had already slipped out of her heels and stretched out on Hecate’s bed.

“Don’t go—” Pippa said, as Hecate made for the door. “Please.”

Hecate, bewildered, crossed the room to her desk, where she laid her hand on one of the old books she was researching and smoothed it open on her book stand. Glancing behind her, she saw Pippa lying turned towards her, eyes closed.

The sound of cat paws padding across the hall told Hecate that Morgana had returned from her excursion and was investigating where her mistress was. Morgana snaked herself around the door and leapt up onto the bed where Pippa lay.

* * *

Pippa soon fell fast asleep as Hecate worked; she breathed gently with the dark furry form of Morgana curled into her stomach, purring. While Pippa had asked her to stay, it was nearing time for dinner and Hecate suspected they could both do with a meal after all the energy they had put in that evening, so as quietly as she could, she edged out of the room and down to the kitchen.

Hecate took a jug of vegetable stock she had made the other day from the fridge and poured it into a saucepan to heat it through, sprinkling in some saffron threads. While it started to come to temperature, she found a butternut squash and began to gut the seeds from it. The cooler weather necessitated something warming to the soul. Once she had sliced the squash into attractive semi-circles, she arranged the pieces on a tray, drizzled it with olive oil, seasoned it, and put it in the oven for roasting, and started to prepare the rest of the ingredients, arranging them on her chopping board neatly in the order that they were required.

Hecate added some minced onion, garlic, and peppers to a large pan and began to fry them. It suddenly struck her as the aroma began to develop that she had never actually cooked for Pippa and this would be Pippa’s first time sampling food that she had made. Anxiety set in as she searched for paella rice in the cupboards—she knew it had been there—worrying that she had begun something that she could not complete—what would she present before Pippa if she did not have the essential ingredient of paella?—but all the while knowing that she had seen it just the other day. What she would not give to be able to cast a simple object summoning spell and have it sail into her hands. Then, turning, she saw the offending box of rice on the counter. She had already taken it out. She let out the breath she was holding in.

Into the pan went green beans and butter beans, and some smoked paprika, before Hecate added chopped tomatoes and a healthy glug of the sherry. She measured out enough rice on the scales, before letting it sprinkle into the other ingredients, briefly stirring to let the rice mingle with everything. Then, she poured over the simmering stock over with a fresh sprig of thyme—it made a satisfying hiss as it made contact with the hot metal base of the pan. Hecate found the act of cooking normally relaxing, but with the knowledge that she would be cooking for Pippa for the first time ever, she was starting to hesitate over things she would have usually done without thought. But she had made paella dozens upon dozens of times—this panic was foolish.

Hecate attended to the roasting squash. The tray sizzled with hot oil as she removed it from the oven and probed one of the larger chunks with a fork to check if it was almost soft. Then she arranged it on top of the ingredients in the pan, along with some discs of leek and quarters of artichokes, pushing them into the rice with a spoon.

She began thinking of where they would eat. She would have liked to have been able to conjure a dining table in the sitting room, possibly light a candle—_because it was dark_, of course; no other reason existed—and ideally some soft music would be playing. No, that was ridiculous—no music. She was not _wooing_ Pippa. This was to show her appreciation for Pippa’s gargantuan effort to heal her.

Hecate turned off the hob and covered the pan with foil. They would have to sit at the kitchen island—which would be fine. It would be more casual. Less consciously orchestrated. Not a hint of romance to be had.

* * *

Hecate had heard no stirring from upstairs while she had been cooking. Had her magic been at its normal strength, she might have tried seeing through Morgana’s eyes—although that had the potential to be an invasion of Pippa’s privacy and Hecate quickly expelled that idea from her mind. 

She ascended the stairs, hoping that Pippa would still be asleep and that she had not done the wrong thing or betrayed Pippa’s wishes by leaving when she had asked her to stay.

On pushing the door open, however, Hecate saw that Pippa was sitting on the edge of the bed, a book in her lap, hands tracing something on the page. It was a moment before Hecate realised the book was her own copy of The Witches’ Code—and another tense moment before Pippa’s head whipped around and saw Hecate standing there.

“You never— it’s still here. You didn’t remove my drawing,” Pippa said, voice thick with emotion.

Hecate approached, heart trembling inside—daring herself to step closer when all she wanted was to escape. She looked over Pippa’s shoulder—glanced at the drawing. It was an elegant sketch of the two of them facing each other and holding hands. Even at sixteen, Pippa had been a brilliant artist. Her own face was serene as the moon goddess—hair loose and flowing out behind her as if caressed by winds from the aether. Pippa, her pencil eyes looking up through long lashes at Hecate’s face, smiled blissfully, one of her legs lifted behind her.

_“You’ve defaced my Witches’ Code!”_

_“But it’s a picture of us, Hiccup. Don’t you like it?”_

_“I love it—of course I love it, Pip—but did it have to be in my ceremonial book?”_

_“I’m sorry, Hiccup. You can magic it away if you want. I just wanted— I won’t draw on your things without your permission again. Forgive me?”_

_“Only if you kiss me—”_

Hecate drew herself out of the memory sharply. Pippa’s eyes were still trained on her face, searching for an answer.

“I— do not remember why I left it. I suppose it is a part of the book’s history in my possession,” Hecate said in a low voice. “I’ve— I have made dinner. You do not have to join me if you would rather return to Pentangle’s—”

“I’m actually so hungry that I don’t think I could last the flight back,” admitted Pippa. 

“Then you are welcome to join me,” said Hecate, silently grateful that her efforts had not been wasted on merely feeding herself alone.

Hecate returned to the kitchen, Pippa in tow, where the paella was resting. Her nimble fingers removed the hot foil to reveal the spiral of seasonal vegetables amidst a bed of rice.

“Paella! That’s my favourite—”

Hecate blinked in surprise. In the two-and-a-half decades that had passed with them not speaking to another, she had hardly considered that Pippa’s favourite food might have changed. But then, one’s childhood favourite food when limited to the flavours offered by school dinners would have been vastly different to what it might be when exposed to the world beyond bangers and mash.

“Just a moment,” Hecate said, returning to her chopping board with a bunch of parsley. She rocked the knife back and forth, effortlessly slicing it, before sprinkling it over the top to garnish.

“You’re quite skilled with that knife.” Hecate had put the plates side by side, but Pippa slid one over to the other side of the island and slipped into the seat, watching Hecate as she carried over the paella pan with an oven glove. Pippa’s decision to sit opposite made the air seem closer. She did not know how she would manage with Pippa’s eyes a mere glance away. Without the excuse of Pippa being close to her for the reason of healing, somehow this felt as intimate as when she was physically touching her.

Hecate put one hand on the cool granite, letting it leech the warmth from her. She was nervous for Pippa to try her food, as Pippa started serving herself from the hot pan. What if it did not live up to her standards? What if she had made some grave error—some slip of the mind that would make the food inedible—

“Oh but this is _orgasmic_, Hecate,” Pippa said, her eyes closing in apparent ecstasy.

Hecate did not know whether it was the use of the word _orgasmic_ or the visual expression of her delight or the fact that Pippa had praised the food she had made, but she blushed deeply.

“I first had paella in this little place in Valencia—have you been to Spain?”

“No, never—”

“Oh it’s _glorious_,” Pippa cut in before Hecate had even realised she had finished. “You must go sometime. I think you’d be fascinated by the covens there. They way they celebrate Beltane is so— vibrant. Makes Cackle’s Beltane look like a wake.”

“Indeed?” Hecate said with feigned interest to cover her humiliation. Of course Pippa would be well-travelled—well-acquainted with covens from all over the world—cultured—experienced in every way that Hecate was not. She suddenly felt very small and inferior. She had grown up and aged on this single mountain, where even the Cackle’s celebrations of the seasonal festivals could prove too overwhelming for her.

“But this paella is just wonderful. It tastes very authentic. And I’ve had my fair share of paella from Spain.”

“An old family recipe,” Hecate muttered, before she fully absorbed the consequences of making the briefest mention of personal information.

“You have Spanish blood?” Pippa gasped. “But then you really must go! Oh Hecate I had no _idea_ you have Spanish relations. Do they live there? Why did you never mention it when we were— when we were at school?”

“I— I do not know. I do not like to talk about it,” Hecate said, and took a large forkful of rice to avoid answering any more questions.

Pippa looked at Hecate, the spark of excitement in her eyes dimming down to mischievous intrigue. Instead of probing her for more details, Pippa began telling her all about her exploits in Spain and what she had been doing there. Apparently she had travelled around Europe, researching the pedagogy of other magical academies when she was embarking on the founding of Pentangle’s Academy. She threw out names of towns and schools, teachers she had met, searching Hecate’s expression with her golden brown eyes for any indication—the merest flicker—of recognition, but Hecate betrayed nothing. 

After some they finished their meal, through which Hecate had been almost completely mute, Pippa’s eyes glittered with renewed glee as she caught sight of something over Hecate’s shoulder. “What would you say to a glass of sherry?”

“Do you not have to fly back soon?” Hecate returned, sensing lowered inhibitions might lead to more social blunders on her part.

“No, I think I’d like to stay a little longer, if that’s all right. I might try a few of those chants if it’s not getting too late for you.”

Hecate checked the gold-rimmed clock on the wall. “It is twenty past nine. I would not want to keep you from your duties as headmistress.”

Pippa laughed and waved her hand. “My deputy can handle things. So, sherry?”

Hecate saw no other excuse she could make, and went over to the bottle of sherry that was still standing beside the stovetop, reaching up to the cabinet with the glasses to find some sherry glasses. A freezing burn suddenly hit her like a heartbeat through her chest, and she lost grip of her cane, and fell forwards. Magic immediately surrounded her from behind, and then Pippa appeared, cradling her before she fell too far, saving the sherry from being knocked off the surface.

“Hecate? Are you all right?” Pippa’s voice sounded so close to her ear that Hecate’s scalp tingled.

The press of Pippa’s body against hers was warm. Their right arms were touching where Pippa’s hands curled around her sleeve—her posterior was braced against Pippa’s front—Pippa’s left arm was curved around her ribs—her hand just shy of Hecate’s chest and the pendulous pocket watch. Hecate felt her ears immediately start burning.

“I’m— fine.”

“Well you’re clearly not,” Pippa retorted, allowing Hecate to right herself, but slipping her right hand down her arm to her hand to provide a more stable grip. Hecate’s fingers curled around Pippa’s hand, fighting against the urge to put significance into the action by lingering there longer than necessary—she got to her feet, released Pippa’s hand, and clutched at the counter top.

“Just a shooting pain. I had one earlier before you arrived.”

“Perhaps I’d better pour the sherry,” Pippa smiled grimly, and put an arm around Hecate to help her back to her seat. “And perhaps you’d better tell me any more symptoms you’ve neglected to inform me about.”

“For that I do apologise—” Hecate said “—I did not think it important to mention.”

“Of course it was. You know, Hecate, the problem is that you think _you’re_ not important,” Pippa said, taking a pair of small sherry glasses out of the cabinet and pouring them, “but you are.”

She approached in one fluid motion and set the glass before Hecate, her pink-manicured fingers resting on the stem of the glass for a moment.

But Pippa was wrong. She was just a potions mistress, and Pippa the headmistress of a flourishing new academy of magic. Hecate was expendable. Her life was bound to Cackle’s, and her influence by comparison insignificant. 

Hecate looked into the light amber liquid. To take it now would feel like an acceptance of what Pippa had said, when all she desired was to utterly refute it. However, to refuse the drink would be rude. The other glass was already poised in Pippa’s elegant fingers, glinting where the cut glass reflected the light, waiting to meet her lips.

Out of stubborn politeness, Hecate took her glass up, and brought it to her mouth to taste the fluid within.

“It’s not too sweet,” commented Pippa.

“No, it’s quite palatable.”

They savoured the sherry in a moment of silence. Hecate was feeling dazed from her fall—directly into Pippa’s arms—and wished she could fan herself as the heat rose in her cheeks from the alcohol and—other influences that had nothing to do with the innocent amber liquid.

Pippa seemed unfazed as ever by the sherry. She finished her glass before Hecate, and set it down by the sink. Hecate quickly tipped back the last gulp from the tiny glass, feeling pressure in the moment.

“The meal was completely delicious, Hecate. Thank you so much for cooking. You really didn’t have to.”

“It was only polite, considering all you have done for me.” Hecate looked down into the empty sherry glass.

“Right, do you feel up for another go?”

Hecate realised this meant she would be hearing Pippa sing in just a few minutes. She was woefully unprepared for this and half wished she could send her back to Pentangle’s.

They returned once more to the bedroom. Pippa was behind her all the way, feeling very near out of the corner of Hecate’s vision. Perhaps she was afraid lest Hecate should chance to fall again. Taking her seat felt like all the other times they had assumed this position, but Hecate felt just as tense as she had done the first time—her back was so straight it would not touch the wooden chair, her knees pressed together, her jaw set—yet her heart inside an absolute shambles of emotions all yammering together in a cacophony not unlike an out-of-control classroom of petulant girls.

“If this evening has taught me anything, it’s that it is more important than ever that we get you back to normal,” Pippa said.

She retrieved her notebook, and flipped to the right page. Hecate took a deep breath, and Pippa nodded to indicate she was ready to begin.

Pippa’s lips parted, and the first note strummed the air, sending magic shimmering across the room like a physical reverberation. Glowing threads wove in the space between them towards Hecate, who tensed her body against the oncoming song. This was sheer torture, hearing the soul of the woman she once— She could not hear this without letting down her guard—in case she revealed too much of the feeling she was holding back.

Pippa’s song fell short of completion, and Hecate looked up to see her frowning slightly. She approached, and knelt before Hecate and resting back on her feet. “It will help if you are not resistant to my magic. Take my hands. Trust me. I’m not going to hurt you. Close your eyes if it helps.”

Hecate opened up her clenched hands on her lap so that Pippa could access them and closed her eyes. Watching Pippa sing from across the room was hard enough; with her being this close, it would be impossible to disguise her feeling. In the dark, unable to see, she felt her barriers build up as soft hands slipped into hers.

“Let yourself breathe naturally and feel the tightness inside you unwind with each breath. You are safe here. There is nothing here that you need to fear. All your duties and responsibilities are being taken care of by people you trust. All you need to concentrate on is breathing in... and out.”

As Pippa spoke, she felt herself continuing to resist, struggling to focus on the words, her mind intractably focused on keeping Pippa at bay.

“I cannot relax.” Hecate shook her head, opening her eyes and finding Pippa’s concerned face before her, and a stab of purely emotional pain twisted in her heart.

“Maybe if your hair wasn’t tied so tightly—”

“—No,” Hecate said sharply, flinching back as Pippa’s hand made as if to reach up. It was instinctual—though Pippa was unlikely to be as harsh as Mistress Broomhead had been, the very act of someone else touching her hair made her feel extraordinarily unsafe.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean—” Pippa started, and softened her voice. “How can I help you feel more comfortable?”

_By not being you_, Hecate found herself thinking. This seemed like it was going to be too difficult for her to be comfortable with—and she would stay broken like this forever. There had to be some way of getting past this—even if that meant that Pippa would not be the one who would save her.

“Perhaps if you lay down,” Pippa suggested. “With Morgana.”

Morgana had just popped her head around the door, puffing out the dark grey streaks on her chest fur. She padded over to Hecate and leapt into her lap, and then climbed up onto her shoulder and butted her head against Hecate’s.

“She cannot hear my thoughts,” said Hecate quietly. “It has been lonely for her.”

“Poor kitty,” Pippa crooned, giving Morgana a good scritch on her head. Hecate felt awkward as Pippa’s petting hand was very near her own head.

“I will try lying down,” Hecate said at last. She turned towards the dressing table. “And I will take my hair down. Could you take Morgana?”

“Of course,” Pippa responded in such a soft voice that Hecate’s heart felt like it could break. Morgana’s claws dug into Hecate’s shoulders in reaction to being lifted when she would rather cling onto her mistress. Pippa unhooked her claws from Hecate’s clothing and held her in her arms until she quietened down and sat on the end of the bed while Hecate began the process of removing her hairpins.

With Pippa present, Hecate was overly conscious of how private an act taking her hair down could be. She was at her most vulnerable—never too far from the memory of Mistress Broomhead—yet also this was usually the time she devoted only to herself, when she could do nothing else, when she was forced to care for herself. As long as she could leave in at least one pin, she would not have to show the shameful curls. She felt Pippa pause in her attention to Morgana when she let down the first sheaf of hair, which dangled precariously over her shoulder and down to her waist. With each pin set down on the table, the stillness in the room thickened. A final release came when she arrived at the stage where she could release the discreet hairband holding the topknot in place: she pulled it free along the length of her ponytail, and her hair flowed down, no longer held back, falling to rest brushing against either side of her face. One effect of the Hairpins of Straightness was that any curl or dent that would usually have resulted from being tied tightly in a bun all day relaxed immediately. If Pippa noticed this, she did not show any sign. All Hecate heard was an intake of breath as she let her hair cascade down her back to its full length. Pippa had seen it at Mabon and even commented on its length then—there was no reason why she should be surprised now.

She turned and crossed the distance cautiously to the bed side, aware of Pippa staring at her. Hecate slipped her stockinged feet out from her shoes, and let herself lean back onto the bed. Her head settled into the pillow. She drew her hair out from under her neck and let it pool on one side. Morgana must have extricated herself from Pippa’s lap; her paws pressed into the duvet over to Hecate’s recumbent form and nestled onto her chest. 

“May I start?” Pippa asked, her face appearing from the bedside, hovering into her peripheral vision.

“Very well.”

Certainly, the tension was harder to hold onto from this position. Her heart rate gradually slowed as Morgana’s purrs vibrated through her chest. She stared into the canopy of the four-poster bed—the pale gold hangings around her.

“Close your eyes.”

Hecate obeyed. With her scalp released from the tightness of the bun—with the weight of her hair supported by the bed—she felt as though she were drifting slowly into a state of almost calm.

“Breathe from your diaphragm. In through your nose... hold... and then out through your mouth. In... hold... out.”

Hecate found herself breathing in time with Pippa’s guidance. Morgana was breathing at a different pace, but she managed to feel herself decompress with each breath.

“As you inhale, focus on your physical self and feel where your tension is centred. Notice the tightness in your muscles and acknowledge it. Now, exhale, and let your muscles release that tightness. Feel them soften and sink down into the bed.”

Miraculously, the muscles in her body began to relax. Even though it was Pippa who was near her—Pippa whose voice was the only presence in her mind—Hecate found herself letting go of the relentless discipline she commanded her body with, and instead felt herself drifting into tranquility as Morgana’s purrs thrummed through her. 

Lost in a state between wakefulness and dreaming, Hecate became aware that a voice was singing. At first she thought it was far away, but she felt the voice reeling her closer in, until she realised that Pippa had begun her chant. Hecate was enraptured by the colour of the music that Pippa was creating with her magic and soul—if it had a colour it would be the heartbreaking gold of the dress she had worn to the Leavers’ Ball after Hecate had failed to turn up to their waterskiing broomstick display. 

Hecate felt her mind open out as though looking up into a cathedral as Pippa’s voice layered into harmonies, filling a space that was much larger than the humble cottage bedroom. While Hecate could sense all the melody’s slips into the melancholy, tinged with the hurt of decades apart—her strength shone with every note, more beautiful and otherworldly as the harmonies swung in a dizzying dance that the most accomplished of singers would lose their way in attempting to replicate.

Her eyelids flickered open to see Pippa, her face radiant with emotion and magic as she sang. Hecate could barely hear the words, but the feeling of them was enough to break her down. Her vision swam as tears overflowed—unbidden yet unrestrained—and since she was lying down, they were drawn into her hairline, and crept into her ears. 

The chant came to a close with a perfect diminuendo towards a final, quietly blossoming warm chord that touched Hecate inside. Morgana slipped off her chest as she sat up, hugging her knees as the emotion welled up within her. She had not cried this openly in front of anyone before in her life; not without shame did she now try to turn away from Pippa.

Hecate felt arms close around her, and she gripped onto one of Pippa’s forearms to ground herself, the buttons along the sleeve tactile under her fingertips. Pippa’s body drew near, and her head rested against Hecate’s shoulder. Hecate could not tell how much time passed while Pippa held her, only that she knew that eventually it would have to end, and that the moment would be lost just like everything else she had lost with Pippa.

“Hecate,” Pippa whispered breathlessly into her neck. “It worked.”

The spell’s light faded from Pippa’s eyes when Hecate turned her tear-streaked face towards her.

“Your magic—it’s starting to connect.”

Hecate could not formulate words for a moment as she felt Pippa’s hand passing over her blouse where the scar was hidden underneath. 

“Are you upset? Or is it just a release of emotion?”

“The latter.” Hecate, voice child-like, was at a loss whether to instinctively push back against Pippa or to let go of her defences entirely. At that moment she was so overwhelmed that she was starting to shut down.

“Do you need anything? Is this helping?”

“I don’t— I don’t know.” Her hair was trailing over one shoulder, so long that it rested over the brocade bedspread. She began to stroke the tip of a piece of hair over the pattern.

There was a pause. “Should I mirror Ada and ask her to stay with you?”

“No,” Hecate said. “I think I— need to rest—”

“I understand,” Pippa responded, retracting her arms from around Hecate. “You should sleep. You’ve been through a lot. Lie down. I’ll take care of everything downstairs.”

Hecate lay back on the duvet, letting her cheek sink into the cool surface of the pillow and closed her eyes as Morgana crept in beside her and began purring by her stomach. This felt right. This was the only thing that made sense.

* * *

When Hecate awoke the next morning, her hand was curled around the edge of a blanket that she had not gone to sleep with. She pushed herself upright—the thick rope of her hair shifted over her back. Hecate put her hand back to feel that her hair, which had been loose when she had gone to sleep had been bound into a low plait, just like when she had woken after her fight with the Blight.

Hecate sat with her hands running over the plait for some time, in the dark of the early morning, still fully clothed in last night’s clothing, before she could pull herself together. The memories of the previous night kept returning to her; Pippa had held her—her own hand, gripping Pippa’s arm—Pippa’s beautiful singing voice, in which she could hear sorrow such as had not touched the young teenage Pippa’s voice—

What had it meant? Surely for Pippa, a determined, singular woman, performing an act of such compassion for someone who had hurt her would not be done without thought. Pippa’s frosty reaction when she had first greeted her at Cackle’s— it still dug painfully into her heart.

Deciding that she should make the best of her day rather than dwelling on what had happened yesterday, Hecate planned her day during her shower and washed all thought of Pippa from her hair. With the water running through it, the heavy curls felt like liquid silk— that was the only time she could manage to touch her natural hair texture with any kind of appreciation. Today she had physically felt much better, and she would take advantage of the energy—presumably from the treatment that had begun to restore her powers.

Ada had set up Hecate’s magic mirror to not ensure that none of her magic could be imparted in its use. She had taken inspiration from the students’ magic mirror, which used chits imbued with the mirror spell. Of course, Hecate did not have to earn her credits—Ada had given her a modest supply that Hecate was sure she would not exhaust.

Hecate mirrored Miss Nightscribe, instructing that she bring Hecate’s botanist supplies and Ethel to the Grey Gloaming by half past nine on the dot. Miss Nightscribe, apparently recovered from their last encounter, was awake but appeared taken aback to be receiving a mirror call from her.

“How are you going to get to the grove from Westwood Lodge, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“I do mind,” Hecate retorted. “Rest assured I will be there on time.” It was bad enough that she had committed to working with Miss Nightscribe without her concern over her health. “Remember, nine-thirty.” And she closed the connection.

Hecate had another call to make. She touched another mirror chit to the surface, and it sank into the liquid glass.

Dimity Drill’s sleep-confused face appeared. She appeared to be still in her pyjamas.

“HB, why are you mirroring me so early?” she groaned.

“It is twenty-six minutes past seven, Miss Drill. Unless the schedule has gone vastly awry at Cackles, you would be expected at breakfast in thirty-four minutes’ time. I expected that you would be up and about by now.”

“It’s _Monday morning_, HB.”

“Quite. So you should be ready to face the week ahead after a restful weekend,” Hecate shot back. “What is your point?”

Dimity’s expression told her that she had misunderstood a key part of what Dimity had said. “No one’s awake before seven thirty on a Monday morning.”

“I shall have to contradict you there,” snipped Hecate. “Miss Nightscribe was awake _and_ fully dressed when I mirrored her.”

“Don’t tell me you’re going soft on her _now_,” Dimity rolled her eyes. “I swear on Merlin’s right buttock that woman never sleeps. She’s always working later at night than anyone else but seems to be the first one of us awake too.”

“It sounds as though she is a diligent worker, if reckless with her sleeping patterns,” Hecate said sniffily. “But no, I am not _going soft_ on her. If you think that is a behaviour that is likely from me, you have clearly been deluding yourself into jumping to false conclusions.”

“So why have you called me at seven twenty-six on a Monday morning? Surely not to insult my powers of deduction over your _truly baffling_ interactions with perfectly nice human beings.”

Hecate took a deep breath, and broke eye contact. “Actually, I need to ask you a favour.”

Dimity gave a smug smile. “Oh, really?”

It was humiliating enough to have to ask for help even without Miss Drill having the upper hand on her. Hecate supposed she brought this upon herself, but when it came to Dimity Drill, Hecate simply could not rein in the sharpness of her tongue.

“I need a— lift. To the Grey Gloaming grove.”

The Grey Gloaming was quite the hike from Westwood Lodge; Hecate had made this journey before when she was a girl, but it was a good three miles through thick forest. 

“Do you now?” Dimity grinned.

“Please stop torturing me, Miss Drill. You know that in my condition I am in no position to walk the distance there. I would rather not trouble you for your assistance, but— I must.”

“Only because you asked _so nicely_,” Dimity drawled. “Should you even be working, though, really?”

“I—”

“Doubt this is on Cackle’s list of things that will help you get better.”

“Some fresh air away from the lodge cannot go amiss,” Hecate commented frostily.

“I am always telling the girls that fresh air can’t do any harm,” Dimity put a finger to her lips in thought. “I guess I won’t dob you in to Cackle. But you owe me one.”

* * *

It had been a wrench trying to leave Morgana that morning at a quarter to nine. Since they had been away from the castle, Morgana had been taking fewer of her prowls and spending more time with her mistress. They had lost their mental connection; Morgana had definitely been shoeing signs of being unable to hear Hecate’s thoughts as she once could. Hecate had seen so little of her during her time taking the magic suppression potion that she had wondered if Morgana had slunk off in a sulk at the disconnection to her magic. But now that the reason had been discovered, she was clingier than ever before. It was a welcome change, but one that made it quite the challenge to extricate oneself from bed of a morning, or from one’s seat when one was attempting to have a quiet breakfast.

Closing the door on the pleading cat face had been too much to bear. Hecate, with a resigned, “Go on, then,” allowed her familiar to accompany her. “Let’s hope Miss Drill is in a charitable mood.”

Now, stepping out through the overgrown arch, Hecate made her way to the lane outside, Morgana prancing ahead on elegant paws.

Soon enough, Miss Drill descended from the canopy next to her.

“Your taxi has arrived, HB,” Dimity said, an amused expression on her tired face, hovering on the spot.

“Morgana will be with us, if that is acceptable?”

Dimity looked down from her broom at the cat with her lustrous, long black fur. “I’ve had more than two witches and a cat on this broomstick. Trust me. She’ll be no extra trouble.”

Not wishing for any more details about Miss Drill’s broomstick hijinks to be revealed, Hecate did not press the issue, and prepared to join her on the broom.

“Let me take that for you,” Miss Drill indicated Hecate’s cane, and posted it through a hole in mid-air. “Do you need a hand up?”

Hecate remained silent, allowing her hop up onto the broom to speak for her. Morgana took a few steps closer, and then paused in concentration before leaping up onto the broomstick tail and settling. Hecate’s thigh was uncomfortably close to Miss Drill’s, but this was one of the hazards of sharing a broomstick—there was very limited legroom. But there were worse people to share a broomstick with—and with a jolt as Dimity raised the broom and the ground fell away beneath them, Hecate realised the last time she had been on this broomstick was with Pippa Pentangle, the night she had fallen in battle to the Blight. Instead of every muscle tensing to keep her body away from the warmth of Miss Drill’s, she had been completely relaxed, sprawled over Pippa, in whose hair her face must have been pressed, for she had such a vivid memory of how it smelled—how the strands felt on her cheek.

It was no more than five minutes’ flight to the grove. Hecate could see it by the break in the canopy where the mother tree had once been, and as they flew closer to it, the crater of earth could be seen like a scab in the centre.

“Looks pretty grim, doesn’t it?” Miss Drill said, as they descended. Hecate had to grant that Dimity was an excellent flier—the way she touched down on the grass was artistic. She could see why the young flying mistress had earned the title of the Star of the Sky, even if it did make her infuriatingly smug.

“Thank you for the lift,” Hecate said warily, while Miss Drill tried not to look amused, and withdrew Hecate’s cane from the air again.

“Suppose I’ll have to add that to your tab. When’s Mattie arriving then?”

Hecate did not hear the question for a moment, for her attention was drawn to the decay that had beset the trees that outlined the grove. Even at this time of year, with the leaves turning amber and red, the sacred trees that the dryads had the strongest bond with would have been humming with magical energy and still a verdant green. Now, they were almost entirely leafless, and those that still clung to the branches were cracked and brown.

“Miss Nightscribe has been told to arrive at nine-thirty but I hope she has the prescience to be early,” Hecate said, breaking out of her reverie. “We have a lot of work to be doing.”

“Well forgive me if I’m wrong but you’re supposed to be _off_ work at the moment. Taking time to get better. Not teaching. Miss Cackle has been pretty specific about that, if I remember right.” Miss Drill wagged her finger at Hecate. “And definitely not teaching in the middle of the forest for the next few hours.”

“It is not teaching— I am acting in an _advisory_ role. And I am feeling—much better. Miss Pentangle and I have been making progress.”

“That sounds promising. But progress or not, can’t imagine you’re going to stand for the next few hours, are you?” Miss Drill eyed the cane pointedly.

Hecate took a deep breath in and pursed her lips. “Could you conjure me a straight-backed chair and a desk? I will need somewhere to work.”

Miss Drill obliged, and a plain wooden desk and chair appeared on the grass—an inelegant option, but it would do.

Miss Nightscribe and Ethel soon arrived on broomstick. Ethel was flying very well, Hecate noted—whereas Miss Nightscribe reminded her unfortunately of the way that Mildred attempted to control a broomstick, though she at least kept her seat well enough not to fall off. 

“I’ll be back for you by lunch,” said Miss Drill, winking at Hecate. “Don’t do anything reckless like last time you were here.”

Hecate rolled her eyes as Miss Drill took off, and looked over to the two approaching figures, who had just dismounted near where she had been waiting with Miss Drill.

“You are early,” Hecate said coolly. “Which is to say, you are not late.”

Ethel and Miss Nightscribe stood before Hecate’s desk with matching hopeful expressions. Hecate had the impression that she was teaching a very small class, and was somehow comforted by this.

“We will first need to take some soil samples to see whether there is any residual dark magic,” Hecate said. “Ethel—some paper and a quill, if you please. And a ruler.”

Ethel immediately provided a pad of paper and 30 cm ruler from her school bag, along with what looked like her very best self-inking quill—a black eagle feather with a gold nib. Hecate sketched a quick diagram of the grove and marked exactly forty-nine points from which they were to take samples, using the ruler to measure the distance of the cross marks representing the sample locations.

“Miss Nightscribe—my botany kit.” 

“Oh, of course,” Miss Nightscribe said, flushing as she held out the black leather bag.

Hecate opened the bag out flat on the desk like a book; the glass vials, silver and ebony implements, and potions within caught the grey light reflected from the overcast sky. She instructed Ethel and Miss Nightscribe on how to take the samples and distributed the tools required.

Hecate herself could not bear to sit around doing nothing while Ethel and Miss Nightscribe did all the physical labour, so she instructed them to each take responsibility for the samples in a region of the grove. She divided the diagram into three almost equal parts.

“You will each have sixteen, and I will have seventeen. Any questions?”

“How about if I cast a spell on the diagram to make the locations of the samples apparent in the real world?” Miss Nightscribe said, pushing her glasses up her nose.

“You have much faith in the accuracy of my diagram at this scale with so imprecise an instrument as the common ruler,” Hecate said, a hint of amusement in her voice.

“I can correct for that, with a little magical geometry,” Miss Nightscribe replied, tapping the page at various points. Several of the marks moved a few millimetres, and the shape became slightly more regular. She then cast her location spell on the page—Hecate’s ink diagram became etched in light, rose from the paper, and expanded in the air until the diagram was superimposed onto the grove, as if a giant hand had drawn with light onto the ground itself.

“Impressive, Miss Nightscribe,” Hecate said approvingly.

“I—I did a paper on spatial cartography as a part of the Principles of Arcane Extrapolation module for my Spell Theory course at Wisteria Witching College.”

Hecate arched an eyebrow. “Indeed? I thought you specialised in Magical History.”

“I did my doctorate in Magical History. Spell Theory was part of my Master's course,” Miss Nightscribe explained.

“Should you not be _Dr_ Nightscribe, then?”

“Technically,” Miss Nightscribe blushed. “I don’t like to stand on ceremony.”

“You ought to reap the benefits of your accomplishments. At the very least, the full details of your education should be on your CV, which I recall was a little patchy when it came to your academic accolades.”

“I don’t like to think of myself as better than anyone else. No one else on the staff has a title, so I don’t see why I should.”

_You should tell that to Miss “Star of the Sky” Drill_, Hecate thought wryly. “Perhaps you would consider teaching a class of your own at Cackle’s.”

“Really?” Miss Nightscribe brightened considerably.

“Send me a curriculum for each year group. I will review it and help you propose your new course to Miss Cackle. Unless, of course, you do not wish to take on the responsibility of teaching in addition to your duties as librarian. It is not for everyone.”

“No, it’s a great opportunity. Thank you.”

With the help of Miss Nightscribe’s spell, the data collection was highly efficient. Before Hecate could finish the sixth of her data points, however, she found she had to stop as severe fatigue overcame her. She was perhaps a little too optimistic in her ability to take on such a task. 

At the desk, admonished by her own hubris, and with Morgana winding around her legs, Hecate instead drew up a spreadsheet and collated all the data from the samples that Ethel and Miss Nightscribe brought back to her, diligently recording the evidence of dark magic, as well as levels of moisture, soil quality, and the nutrients present for each region. It was not as thorough an investigation as she would have liked to have performed, but it would do.

Hecate gave Ethel and Miss Nightscribe a written slip with the spell to dispel residual dark magic, where the samples indicated its presence. Since Ethel was not a fully fledged witch, and considering her history with dark magic, Hecate thought it the best option for the two to collaborate.

It was nearing midday by the time they had completed their tasks. There was still more work that could be done, but Hecate herself was exhausted and she did not expect the others would be enthused by the prospect of further analysis.

As they were packing the tools away, Ethel spoke up. “Are the dryads really— gone?”

“It would appear so, Ethel,” Hecate said, casting an eye over Ethel’s glum face. “Their trees are dying.”

“It’s all— _my_ fault,” Ethel stammered, her voice sounding hollow.

Hecate sighed. “It is interesting that you consider it that way, when it should have been my responsibility to monitor your project much closer and give you much more assistance.”

“But I’m a _Hallow_. Hallows don’t need help.”

“Ethel, you should know that it is not a sign of weakness to ask for help. Being able to use the skills of others to further our own understanding, or when we lack the ability to complete something, is a sign of great strength. I myself had to ask you and Miss Nightscribe to help when I became too tired to continue with our sample collection today.”

Ethel narrowed her eyes in thought.

“Please consider it, Ethel. You should not waste your education assuming that you know better than those around you. Merely having the same surname as a few powerful witches does not mean that you have to live up to an impossible standard. You are in your first year at Cackle’s and have already performed admirably in your classes, achieving some of the highest consistent grades we have seen for several years. You do not have to prove your worth by attempting magic beyond your ability.”

Ethel remained silent, staring stonily at the desk.

“What am I here for if not to guide you, to teach you, to _help_ you?” Hecate looked at Ethel pleadingly, hoping for any kind of response. Her words did not seem to be penetrating the wall of self-blame that the girl was imposing upon herself; perhaps the only way to overcome this was through time and penance.

* * *

Miss Drill arrived to convey her back to Westwood Lodge once they had finished up. Hecate’s fatigue must have been quite apparent, for the first words that Miss Drill spoke were, “You pushed yourself too hard, didn’t you?”

“There may have been some underestimation of my limitations,” Hecate muttered.

Hecate put the key in the lock to unlock it, but it was already unlocked. She remembered locking it, but— then she spotted a note awaiting her in the kitchen by the kettle. Ada’s script flowed over the page as soon as her skin made contact with the blank note.

_Hecate,_

_I know you must feel frustrated, but please do try to keep yourself from any strenuous activity. We all want you back on your feet as soon as possible but not at the expense of your health. _

_There are other members of staff who can handle the rejuvenation of the Grey Gloaming, but thank you for getting started on it. Your comprehensive knowledge has given us a jolly good start._

_Now, with all kindness intended, stay at home and rest._

_Ada_

The ever-resourceful Ada of course had already found out that she had been out that morning. Hecate did not begrudge Ada her concern, especially since she had been correct in that Hecate _had_ been foolish enough to have driven herself too far. She had simply wished that Pippa’s treatment could have worked enough for her to have been able to do at least one useful task.

Before she could muse on the various innumerable ways Ada could have found out the information, a sound from upstairs startled her. The key in the lock and the closing of the front door must have been audible, for now a pair of footsteps crossed the hall upstairs, and down the stairs came Pippa, still wearing her pink travelling cloak.

“Hecate— Thank goodness you’re safe,” Pippa exclaimed, relief visible as she exhaled, shoulders slumping forwards.

“I was not expecting you until tonight,” Hecate said, bewildered. She felt a visceral reaction burn in her skin as she recalled how Pippa had held her last night. She looked over the harried woman before her, so different to how she had been yesterday, and wondered what she could mean by _safe_?

“I— I wanted to check in on you, Hecate,” Pippa said, her cheeks flushed, hand raising to knead her brow. “After last night I couldn’t stop thinking about how you reacted after the treatment. I really should have stayed longer to make sure you were all right.”

Hecate’s brow furrowed in confusion. “I am fine, Pippa. You could have mirrored me.” The idea of Pippa _thinking_ about her, _worrying_ about her—

“I tried twice, Hecate, but you didn’t respond.” Pippa shook her head. “Now I see I was worried over nothing.”

“I— I am sorry, this was my fault,” Hecate admitted hesitantly. “To be frank, I should not have been out. Did you inform Ada I was missing?”

“No, of course not. I— well, I suppose part of me assumed that you would be with her.”

“I was at the Grey Gloaming, surveying the damage with Miss Nightscribe and Ethel. I had promised that I would do it before— before it became apparent I should not be doing any kind of magic.”

“You didn’t try to do any magic today, did you?” Pippa asked, trepidation in the lift of her eyebrows. 

“No, I was merely supervising,” Hecate answered. It was a little less than the truth. She was feeling a little faint from her exertion but did not think it necessary to worry Pippa any further. “I know my magic is far from healed.”

She wondered if she should raise the topic of how she had found her hair plaited that morning, but she could not find the right way to ask without sounding as unsettled as she was by it—and she was not certain if she wanted to hear Pippa admit that she had been the one—or to listen to _why_ she had done it.

“I’m— I’m technically meant to be teaching soon.” Pippa’s mouth twisted with guilt. “I think I should give you a checkup, but then I ought to go back, since you’re not in any immediate danger.”

After a brief once-over with a Sight spell, Pippa frowned. “Well, for now, you are _absolutely_ forbidden from doing anything this afternoon. That means no wandering about outside, no making anything elaborate in the kitchen beyond putting on the kettle for yourself. In fact, I advise bed rest and if you’d like to try, a relaxing bath.”

“Is something the matter?”

“It’s hard to tell at the moment,” Pippa said. “I don’t want to worry you, but there’s been a tiny contraction of the link between your magical nerves since last night. It could mean that we just need to do more frequent treatments, which will mean I need to be here more.”

“Ah,” Hecate said, panic creeping up from the pit of her stomach. Not only did this imply that the treatment might not work long-term, it also meant that she would have to hide her feelings from Pippa all the more often.

“I’m sorry, Hecate. I know how you value your independence and it must be so annoying to have to have me popping in and out all the time.”

“No, nothing like that. I am merely disappointed that it seems that my magic will not be safe to use for quite some time. But before I forget—” Hecate crossed to one of the kitchen drawers and took out the soft bundle of scarf that she had stored in there. “You left this—”

“Oh!” Pippa rested her hand on it as Hecate held it out for her. “If I leave it here again, it’ll mean that I have to come back for it.” Her fingers closed over the soft material—Hecate felt a spark running up her spine as Pippa’s skin met hers—and she drew it to herself, then swept over to the coat stand. “Perhaps it should live here,” she said, hooking it over, “until you’re better. Then I’ll have to keep coming back.”

Hecate swallowed and nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SO SORRY about the wait for this one. I had massive amounts of writer's block and also ran into Plot Difficulties. Mostly ironed out now.
> 
> me: *writes angst*  
me: is this fluff?
> 
> Don't @ me about my vegetarian paella!! I'm vegetarian irl so writing about meat isn't really my thing. Last chapter the meal was also wholly vegetarian in case you missed that. Originally I was going to have her make risotto but then I was like, this is ridiculous, it's gOT to be paella for Spanish reasons and then that took on its own spiral. I've never made paella before and I had to research this in some depth (being a massive foodie, food details are important to me) and there are lots of schools of thought on it that all conflict, which is SUPER HELPFUL. So. Hecate makes seasonal autumnal vegetable paella and this is the hill I will die on. Also "butter bean" is the British term for the lima bean.
> 
> Another British Note: Mattie Nightscribe's university is called a "college" because it's a constituent part of the University of Cambridge. In the UK there's a clear distinction between universities and colleges. My knowledge of Weirdsister College is minimal at best but I do know that it's another Cambridge college. I just didn't want literally Everyone to have gone to Weirdsister College. 
> 
> I chose the name Wisteria because it's a herb used in connecting to past lives, and the college is geared towards those studying interested in history and old stuff. 
> 
> I don't know what else to say. I've forgotten literally everything I've just written. Let me know if there's anything you want me to answer about any of the details I've included because at least 80% of them are researched and (somewhat) carefully considered!
> 
> Thank you so much for your patience, and I will try to update sooner than 3 weeks next time.
> 
> Heathcliff  
@heathtrash on tumblr & twitter
> 
> PS: I'm already salivating over a scene I'm writing in my head for chapter 8. You're welcome.


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pippa's frequent visits to Westwood Lodge mean that Hecate will have to cope with her being much closer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “You are so present in this cottage that every beauty is like you—is of you.”  
Valentine Ackland, _I'll Stand by You_

Pippa came back.

When Pippa returned that evening, exactly as she said she would, Hecate felt concern curl her fingers in towards her palm, while her other hand tightened over the raven-headed cane. It was going to be very challenging to keep Pippa at arm’s length while she was so very distractingly close.

“Welcome back.”

Pepper—Pippa’s short-haired bruiser of a familiar—snuck up onto the doorstep and up into the kitchen. Hecate’s stomach flipped as she saw him, recalling how she used to stroke his plush fur, which was now flecked with tiny white wisps in his older age.

“I brought Pepper—I hope you don’t mind. He’s been pawing at my broomstick for days and I think he just needs a bit of adventure.” Pippa crouched down and gave his little square head a good stroke.

Hecate cleared her throat. “Of course, he is welcome to stay whenever it is convenient—as are you.” 

Pippa glowed with pleasure. 

“Er— have you eaten? I have some leftover pie,” Hecate muttered, feeling painfully awkward as she asked the question. It was not as glamorous as the paella she had prepared that first day Pippa had worked so hard on her treatment—

“Actually, I did have a bite to eat before I came over,” Pippa confessed. “I told you you weren’t to do anything beyond put the kettle on, and I didn’t want to put you to any trouble. If it’s anything like your paella, I know I’d love it.”

Hecate ate silently at the kitchen island while Pippa told her about the afternoon she had had. It was so strange hearing about the difference in the way things happened at Pentangle’s—there was a much wider range of subjects they could take, and in some periods the students could even choose to attend one of two classes, providing that they attended the other class later in the week. Hecate commented that she imagined that it would lead to all sorts of logistical nightmares—students taking advantage and finding loopholes to exploit and new ways to skip lessons.

“But when they enjoy their lessons, why should they want to skip?” Pippa posited. 

Hecate had to admit that there might be an element of logic to what Pippa said as she pushed some buttery new potatoes around on her plate.

“I’ve started thinking about offering Ordinary information technology classes—you know, using computers. Mercy Whistlemoon, our librarian, seems quite keen on developing a curriculum. Have you heard of technopaganism?”

Hecate’s face went through a journey as she processed the multiple layers of baffling information Pippa was conveying. “Techno— are you suggesting that we merge the fields of technology and magic?”

Pippa shrugged. “It’s not like it’s my idea. It’s been around for decades, Hecate.”

“I am not sure whether it is right for Cackle’s,” Hecate said shortly. 

Pippa pinched one of the potatoes from Hecate’s plate and popped it in her mouth. “Without Ordinary technology, witches wouldn’t have come up with the idea for maglets.”

Hecate scowled at Pippa’s theft of her food but decided to allow it. “I have always thought maglets a nuisance. The girls use them all too often to exchange doodles in class. I have had my likeness caricatured enough times to have a strong opinion on their place in my classroom.”

“Students are always going to doodle. I just let them get on with it if I’m teaching a sit-down class. And if they want to draw me, then why not?”

“I’m sure the drawings they do of you are a lot more flattering than the gargoyles they make out of me,” Hecate said ruefully.

“Do you think I want to be seen as just a barbie doll?” Pippa grimaced. “Is that better or worse than being made into an anthropomorphised bat?”

Hecate blinked; she had not considered that the students could upset Pippa just as much as they could her, and cursed herself that she had assumed that just because Pippa was beautiful, her difficulties with the students simply would not exist.

Pippa’s eyes connected with hers, and Hecate had to concentrate on her plate to avoid losing herself entirely. “It’s hurtful to see yourself presented that way sometimes, but often they’re expressing their creativity or genuinely showing an appreciation of your aesthetic.” 

“At least with doodles on paper, there is only one copy that can be confiscated. But with a maglet, within a second they can send the image to every pupil in the school. When Miss Cackle introduced them, she brought upon us a network of insubordination and sedition.”

Pippa laughed softly. “You have a point, Hecate, but your turn of phrase—” She put a hand to her mouth and shook her head. “But studies _have_ shown that doodling can help aid memory. It’s just a case of drawing a line about what is and isn’t appropriate. Obviously passing notes via maglet mean that there’s a lack of respectful communication happening.”

“I think we can agree on that,” Hecate conceded as she set her cutlery down on her plate neatly.

Once Hecate had finished her cup of tea, they went upstairs for Hecate’s treatment. Pepper followed them into Hecate’s room, tail held high and hooked over at the tip. Morgana had been on the bed snoozing, but her ear twitched when Pepper entered, and she opened her olive green eyes to watch the new intruder.

It took a moment, but Pepper, on noticing he was being observed, leapt with his powerful back legs onto the bed to investigate. His paws made heavy dips in the duvet as he approached Morgana, who had uncoiled herself and was standing, tail swishing.

“Do you think they remember each other?” Pippa said softly. She and Hecate, in a wordless agreement, stood by to watch the cats as they met again for the first time in decades. Hecate nervously ran her fingers over her pocket watch, hoping Morgana would not reject Pepper. She felt her body weaken as Morgana raised her elegant black nose to Pepper’s, and a flood of relief as she bumped her head against his.

“Of course they do,” Hecate whispered, her eyes welling up even as she tried to hold the tears back. It was as though nothing had changed, even after the years their familiars had been apart. 

Morgana settled and allowed Pepper to cuddle up to her and groom her long fur with his little pink tongue. It was just as they had done every time when they were young, when Pippa would creep into Hecate’s room with Pepper in her arms in the nights over their years at school—when Hecate had stiffly allowed the popular girl to enter her sanctum, carefully watching for ulterior motives—when they held hands, Hecate letting her defences be broken down for the first time since Indigo Moon—when Pippa would lay her head against Hecate’s shoulder as she did homework on Hecate’s bed while Hecate read and twined her hand in Pippa’s hair.

Hecate silently crossed the room to her dressing table, resting the cane against the side, and began to take her hair down. In the mirror, she could see Pippa’s reflection standing awkwardly for a moment, her right hand squeezing the fingers of her left, watching Hecate as she slowly unbound the full length of her hair. Then their eyes met in the reflection; Pippa swiftly looked away before taking a seat on the bed by Morgana and Pepper. Hecate could see her chest rise and fall as she took a few deep breaths.

This would be only the second time that Hecate had experienced the treatment, and her body was taut with apprehension after the last time, when Pippa had held her as she cried. She did not wish for a repeat of that, even though her heart longed for her touch again.

Pippa began as she had done before, lulling her into a calm and meditative state with her voice. Hecate gave into the words, feeling them comfort her as she lay back on the bed, her hair flowing around her head.

The chant began. The lower notes reverberated through her, while as the high notes pealed in the air, she felt her mind unfold, like a vast space was being created within her. Sensation flowed through every part of her body, and soon she was overwhelmed by emotion. Tears sprang up from her eyes as the feeling reached a crescendo within her. 

As soon as Pippa finished her song, Hecate sat up, to be received instantly into Pippa’s waiting arms. Pippa had anticipated it. Hecate bowed her head into her shoulder, feeling the warmth from under the fabric of her clothes. She realised would not be able to do this without Pippa, and she loathed that she was now so dependent. 

But unlike the last time she had needed Pippa, when they were teenagers, and the hurt felt like it was too much to tolerate as she started to draw away—this time, Pippa was here, holding her tightly. And she knew Pippa would come back, even if it felt as though part of her was tearing away when she watched her broomstick rise into the air against the night sky, until the light from the windows of the cottage no longer reached her, and she vanished into the darkness.

* * *

The next day, she and Pippa discussed the progression of the treatment; it seemed that once a day meant that there would be an attenuating effect whereby the connection of Hecate’s magic would weaken over the day. Thus, Pippa would have to visit a second time every day. They would trial Pippa visiting in the morning before school, and again after school, to see if her magic would not have as long to degrade and show a steady improvement to her health and magic.

For the first couple of days, Pippa took to arriving early in the morning to perform the treatment, and then leaving again after. Sometimes she would stay for breakfast—other times she would fly off on her broomstick in a rush to get back in time for her morning lessons. 

Their morning partings were much harder to bear for Hecate, since she could not go to a restful sleep afterwards, and had to work out a recovery from her vulnerable state on her own. However, Hecate felt immediately that the intense twice-daily treatment was having a positive effect on her energy levels, even if it was still not wise for her to try using her magic yet. She found herself leaning less heavily on her cane, and reached for it less in the mornings. While the emotional fallout was challenging to handle, the more mobile she could be, the better.

In the evenings, Pippa would arrive promptly at almost the same time every day, and Hecate realised she could have dinner on the table ready for when Pippa flew over after her final class of the day finished. Following Hecate’s hints, Pippa no longer ate before she came over.

It was not long before Pippa turned up on her doorstep with an overnight bag, an odd expression on her face—her raised eyebrows and toothy smile seemed almost shy, even a little guilty, as Pepper invited himself in and rubbed his head against Hecate’s ankles.

“It seemed easier than rushing here at the crack of dawn and back when I have an early morning lesson to take,” Pippa explained.

“You are welcome to stay, Pippa. I am sure you are aware there are two bedrooms here, and you may have the use of the vacant one.”

* * *

The pink scarf had felt like a protective talisman hanging from the coat stand. When Hecate passed it to leave, she would reach out to stroke it—to make sure it was still there—still real. 

_“If I leave it here again, it’ll mean that I have to come back for it.”_

The surety of its existence was a source of comfort and of fear, but it mostly signified that she was not alone in battling her illness. However much she resisted and pushed back, Pippa was going to be there—insistently, in the particular way she had of taking control when Hecate was unsure.

“You are staying this evening, too?” Hecate asked the following afternoon, as she spied the familiar sight of the overnight bag on opening the door to a rain-dusted Pippa and Pepper.

Pippa’s eyes widened. “Only if it’s all right. I don’t want to impose on your independence here.”

“I am hardly independent without my magic, relying on you to bring me back to health,” Hecate replied. “But as I have said before, you are welcome to stay.”

Pippa’s face relaxed into a warm smile as she removed her damp coat and hung it on the coat stand. “Thank you so much. What’s for dinner?”

Hecate could not help but let her lips curl into the slightest of smiles as Pippa’s back was turned. “Aubergine parmigiana and garlic bread.” It was a delight to hear Pippa ask what they would be eating—it was almost like she viewed this as a kind of home.

After the meal, Hecate put the leftovers in the fridge and fed the cats, who had been mewling and batting at their legs throughout their meal on account of the intoxicating smell of cheese, while Pippa did the washing up, helped along with a little magic.

“What would you say to a game of chess?” Pippa asked, eyes flashing mischievously.

“You still play?” Hecate asked, her voice a little high.

“Not often. In fact, very infrequently. I was in the chess society at Weirdsister and took part in a competition. But then it lost its appeal for me after—” Pippa cut herself off, before continuing, “so I didn’t continue beyond my first year.”

“Did something happen?” As soon as the words were out of her mouth, Hecate regretted them. What had she been thinking? What if it had been Hecate herself who had put her off?

“A wizard was—shall we say, unpleasant—to me when he defeated me after a few weeks of trying. I don’t mind losing, I just didn’t want to see him again. He stayed in the club and even went on to compete nationally. He wasn’t even reprimanded. But, it was the nineties, and he was a man.”

Hecate agreed darkly. “Of the wizard staff applicants we have received, there have been precious few who have not tried to explain how we ought to be doing our jobs better, or otherwise behaved inappropriately towards myself and Ada, which is why I will not stand for one on the staff. Our girls deserve better.”

“I don’t have a blanket rule on wizards on my staff,” Pippa said. “But I know I prefer to hire a capable witch over yet another man who thinks he’s the world expert in something he knows very little about.”

“I am sorry you experienced that. We do not have to play chess if it holds bad memories for you,” Hecate said.

“Oh, no, I do have some good memories of chess too,” Pippa responded. Hecate wondered if Pippa had meant the countless hours they had spent playing the game in school. “Besides, I wouldn’t have suggested it if I didn’t want to. Sherry?” Pippa was beside the kitchen cupboard and on the verge of taking two glasses out.

“If you are offering to pour it,” Hecate remarked, remembering the last time when she had collapsed on Pippa. Folding the board open, she began setting up the pieces.

Pippa came over, cupping the two glasses in one hand, stems extending from between her fingers elegantly, and the bottle in the other. She filled Hecate’s first, then her own.

Hecate thanked her, then took a sip of the sherry. “I warn you, I have been practising against Mildred Hubble.”

“Is she a good rival?”

“She is a very creative beginner,” Hecate replied tactfully.

Pippa made a pitying smile. “Poor dear. You’ve mopped the floor with her every time, haven’t you?”

Hecate raised an eyebrow as she looked at Pippa over the rim of her glass and did not respond directly. “White first.”

* * *

By the fourth day, the overnight bag became a suitcase.

“I thought—since I’m always here—it might make more sense to just keep some clothes here. If that’s all right with you?”

“That would seem to be the most logical course of action,” Hecate responded, trying to keep her voice level. “You are welcome to make yourself at home in the spare room as you have been doing, however you please.”

“Brilliant! Now come and help me unpack.” Pippa was already at the foot of the stairs before Hecate could say anything to the contrary, and made her way up to the landing, Hecate hurrying along behind her.

It was strange being in the room with Pippa, in the place where she had secretly written to her as a girl during her summers—before Mistress Broomhead had realised and she had had to stop sending the letters. She had such a strong memory of sitting by the window with a response that Pippa had written her—one of the few that had got through after Hecate had realised a way to apprehend the letters before Mistress Broomhead had the chance to seize and destroy them—that she could practically sense a ghost of herself there, aching with loneliness as she touched the words that her beloved Pippa had written, imagining those hands twining with her own. 

Pippa was wholly unaware that her letters were being stolen, or that Hecate’s often were prevented from arriving. Pippa did not even know where her letters were being sent—she had incorrectly assumed that Hecate spent her summers with family. That was how it would remain. Hecate wondered with amazement how Pippa had redecorated this house completely ignorant of the significance that each room held. That was how it would remain. Not a single aspect of her past could be betrayed, lest the whole truth about her confinement should be revealed. Hecate could not burden her with the knowledge of her history before Pippa had known her—the awful truth about what she had done to Indigo Moon—and of Hecate’s punishment that had kept them apart—that would continue to keep them apart.

Yet, that Pippa was here now, in all her vibrancy of spirit and colour, was a testament to how suffering did not have to last forever.

“Pink as ever, Miss Pentangle?” Hecate said fondly, eyes blinking against the brightness of the clothing Pippa was hanging up in the wardrobe.

“There was a time when I stopped wearing pink at all,” Pippa muttered, almost as if to herself. When she looked back at Hecate there was something missing from her smile. 

“Those days are quite clearly over now.” Hecate had not intended to sound quite so arch, but the words seemed to diffuse the seriousness of what Pippa had just said.

“Observant of you to notice,” Pippa retorted primly, and playfully aimed a mock-poke at Hecate with a clothes hanger. “Don’t make me regret staying here.”

“I would not dream of it.” When her back was turned, Hecate shut her eyes to close herself off from the sight of Pippa—it was going to be much harder than she had ever thought not to let her true feelings show, particularly now that she was sleeping just across the hall every night.

* * *

It was mid-afternoon, and Hecate was not expecting Pippa back for at least another hour. She had been doing a study of some books that Miss Nightscribe had (correctly) thought she might find interesting on historical varieties of roots and their place in witches’ potions and remedies of old. Hecate wondered if she could get in contact with the author to see if they had any heirloom seeds that she could make a garden from.

Hecate happened to look up from the page just as a movement from outside crossed an imperfection in the glass of the window and caught her eye, and she stood to get a better view. 

Outside in the paddock beside the garden was a snow-white horse. Hecate blinked. She had never seen a horse here before, and for a mad moment wondered if she had either been seeing things, or if the horse had actually been a unicorn. But no—there was no horn. 

Then, a figure came into view. From this distance she could make out a top hat, mulberry-coloured tailcoat, and tight white breeches with grey panels on the inner thighs—while Hecate had never seen her wearing such an outfit, the feeling of her stomach bottoming out told her that it was Pippa—Pippa, in full riding gear.

The white horse serenely nosed Pippa. She laughed and stroked the horse’s head affectionately. Hecate was so close to the window that her slightly ragged breath began to cloud on the glass. As soon as she noticed it, she withdrew from the window, but the damage was done. The condensation lingered ghostly there for a while, betraying her presence should Pippa chance to look up.

Hecate lowered herself back into her chair, yielding a yowl of discontent from Morgana who had taken up residence in her chair and now was unwillingly displaced, and picked up the historical root book again. Pippa had a _horse_? Hecate had not even known that Pippa could ride a horse. She was aware that Pentangle’s offered riding lessons, but somehow had not made the connection that Pippa herself would be of the equestrian persuasion. 

She had been looking at the book for several pages before she realised she had not been reading the words at all. Her ears felt very hot. She could not expel the image that now haunted her mind of how she imagined Pippa Pentangle would look riding astride her pure white horse. 

The key turned in the lock downstairs.

“Hecate?” came the muffled call of Pippa’s voice.

Hecate gulped, and steeled herself with a deep breath before descending the stairs. 

With her shadow throwing inwards over the kitchen, Pippa was standing before the open door, the shape of her top hat and breeches unfamiliarly jarring with Hecate’s usual mental image of her in dresses or skirts. There was a moment as she lingered on the bottom step when Hecate wondered if time had stopped.

“Well?” Pippa smiled, removing her top hat and flourishing with her gloved hand. “What do you think?”

It was alarming how well the outfit suited Pippa. Hecate knew was in trouble from the moment she had set eyes upon her in the paddock—she did not know whether her legs could support her body for much longer, since her knees seemed to have taken on the consistency of Miss Tapioca’s horrendous jelly that was sometimes offered to the girls by way of dessert.

“Very— handsome,” Hecate commented, immediately regretting her choice of words. She could have said any number of things, but _handsome_? She realised that she should not know about the horse, or the reason behind this surprise outfit. “What is the occasion?”

“This is my riding outfit,” Pippa explained. “I’ve brought Princess over, since the weather’s been so wet out, and it’s not good for my broom. So I thought I would ride her there and back and stable her here overnight.”

Princess. The horse was called _Princess_. Hecate could not think of a more suitable name for a horse owned by Pippa Pentangle.

“Would you like to come out and meet her?”

Hecate nodded—there was little else she could do in the situation. Saying, _No, I would not like to meet your horse_, was hardly an option. She followed the excited Pippa out to the paddock, where she noticed one of the sheds had been magically converted into a small stable. 

Pippa leaned against the fence, making little sounds with her tongue until Princess came trotting over, her white mane tossing in the breeze.

“Give me your hand,” Pippa said, and Hecate, feeling as though her entire world was spinning around her, obliged, and Pippa’s soft suede-gloved hand cupped hers.

Pippa extracted a paper packet from her pocket with her other hand and let a crumbly sugar cube fall into Hecate’s palm.

“Here, hold out your hand to her and give her this, and she’ll love you forever.”

Hecate felt her hand tremble in trepidation as she leaned over the wooden fence with her arm outstretched towards the white mare. Princess’s enormous nose sniffed out the treat in Hecate’s hand, and delicately her lips parted and took the sugar cube from her hand. It tickled, and Hecate found herself smiling.

How simple and pure the love of an animal was, if that was all it took. Hecate envied Princess that she could just decide that she would love someone and that was the end of the story. _She’ll love you forever_—if only other hearts were so easily kept.

“You can pet her if you like,” Pippa said, watching Hecate shyly edge her hand towards Princess’s head.

Hecate was fascinated by Princess. She did not know whether it was because she was Pippa’s horse or whether living out here in Westwood Lodge had addled her mind, but she was overwhelmed with how graceful and noble she was—and those big, brown eyes that contained depths of tranquility.

“When she’s here, you can ride her whenever you like,” Pippa said, putting a hand on Hecate’s shoulder.

“I have never ridden,” Hecate responded. “I think riding a horse might not be the best thing for me at the moment.”

“Perhaps not. I’ll teach you, when you’re better. Promise,” Pippa winked, and Hecate all but melted. Her shoulders in that tweed jacket, and the low, tight bun her hair was pulled into under the top hat—such a commanding figure she struck—it was all but Hecate could manage to not collapse on the spot from such a wink.

“Hecate, are you all right?” Pippa said, just as Hecate felt her vision slip, and grabbed onto the fence.

“I am— just feeling a little faint.”

Pippa frowned in concern, and offered her arm for support. “We should get you inside.”

Hecate had never felt as breathless as she did then—arms linked with the woman she secretly adored, feeling all the while genuinely as though she was going to faint. As she leant more heavily on Pippa, she considered it might not be the power of Pippa’s wink, but something more serious.

Pippa guided her into the sitting room, down the step—Hecate felt the world spin and her ears rush and clutched Pippa a little tighter as they crossed the room together—and Pippa let her gently down onto the sofa. 

“Lean back.” Pippa adjusted a cushion so it was filling the void between the arm rest and Hecate’s upper back. “Let me get you some water.”

Hecate stared at the ceiling as the hiss of blood pressed in around her head.

Pippa’s footsteps returned. Hecate could not turn her head to see, but she heard something being set down on the low table beside the sofa and the clunk of crockery.

“I’ve made you a pot of tea as well. I hope it’s not awfully made.”

“Which tea did you use?”

“Chamomile and rose? Is that all right?”

Hecate nodded weakly. “I am sure it will be fine. Thank you.”

After taking a few sips of the cold water, Hecate started feeling much less ghastly. She was well enough to notice that Pippa had taken off her top hat and mulberry jacket, leaving her in a short-sleeved shirt made in a stretch fabric, with a lace yoke panel over her shoulders.

“Perhaps for the rest of the afternoon I’d better take care of you. You’re not to lift a finger. I’ll cook you dinner.”

“_Can_ you cook?” Hecate said, pushing herself up so that she could have some tea.

Pippa stopped her before she could reach forward for the tea pot. It was not the tea pot Hecate usually used for herbal infusions. Pippa smiled, amused, as Hecate watched her helplessly, as she poured Hecate tea. “I’m still alive, aren’t I? I must be capable of at least creating _something_ edible.”

Hecate had her misgivings about this, and Pippa was not exactly filling her with confidence.

“Come through and keep me company while I cook—but don’t make any comments. I feel like you’re going to criticise everything I do.” Pippa said, and offered a hand to Hecate to help her up.

Hecate did not comment on Pippa’s view of her as someone who would cast a critical eye over her, simply because it was entirely true. She slipped her hand into Pippa’s—even though she was certain she had no need of it, there was something so _gallant_ about Pippa in her riding gear that she found herself letting her hand linger in Pippa’s a little longer than she ought to have. Pippa released her hand and let Hecate’s hand drift up her forearm to the nook of her elbow in a way that would have made Hecate swoon had she not been holding onto her.

Pippa led them into the kitchen, and instructed Hecate to sit before bringing her tea in for her, and then put a navy apron over her mostly white outfit.

Hecate was transfixed by the view of Pippa in an apron, in her kitchen, using the utensils she had come to think of as her own. Pippa put a frying pan on the hob, and cracked several eggs into a measuring jug, seasoning it well with salt and pepper.

“What are you going to make?” asked Hecate.

“You’ll just have to wait and see,” Pippa retorted with a maddening smile. 

Hecate was so enraptured by Pippa as she moved lithely around her kitchen that she realised she had not been paying attention to working out what Pippa was making exactly—although to say it was an egg-based dish would be a safe bet, judging by the volume of beaten eggs in the jug.

It was much more pleasurable to watch her work than Hecate had anticipated; she had been worried she would have to bite back comments on knife usage, the best way to chop an onion—but she felt her eyes locked on the way Pippa rocked the knife over a bunch of basil leaves in what seemed like a well-practised fashion. Her eyebrows raised in surprise. Perhaps Pippa had underplayed her cooking skills to tease her on purpose.

“Impressed?” Pippa asked.

“I have not tasted it yet,” Hecate remarked, trying to pass off her smile of appreciation as a smirk.

Pippa stirred the pan. “But have you worked out what I’m making?”

“I think so.”

Pippa poured the egg mixture into the pan with the basil, along with some goats’ cheese and sliced cherry tomatoes.

“It’s a frittata,” Hecate said.

“You guessed it.”

Once she had finished the top under the grill, Pippa served up two portions and brought them over to the kitchen island where Hecate was waiting, her hands restless under the countertop.

Hecate took a morsel and brought it up to her mouth to taste, aware of Pippa waiting for her judgment. The egg was set perfectly, seasoned a little less peppery than Hecate would have liked, but it was balanced in such a way that it didn’t overwhelm the other ingredients; the goats’ cheese, tomato, and basil was a classic combination that was light but richly flavoured.

“What do you think?”

“It’s very good,” Hecate said approvingly.

“You’re not just saying that?”

Hecate shook her head. “Why would I lie when you might make it again? My only criticism is that it could do with an extra turn of the pepper mill, but it is not necessary.”

“Are you suggesting that you want me to cook for you again?” Pippa quirked an eyebrow. “Maybe this is the only dish I can make.”

Hecate cleared her throat and avoided Pippa’s eyes as a blush rose to her cheeks. “Only if you would like, and if it fits in with your schedule. I think I would not mind relinquishing my kitchen to you again.”

Pippa beamed, and it dawned on Hecate that she was doing a very poor job indeed of keeping her at arm’s length.

* * *

Slowly but surely, Pippa Pentangle was encroaching on more of her space at Westwood Lodge, painting over Hecate’s solitude with her joy for life. Pippa had a favourite mug that she would use in the mornings for her coffee—which she had also added to the kitchen cupboard next to Hecate’s tea caddies. One day she had even awoken from a nap by the fire to discover Pippa in the middle of magicing her laundry clean—something that she was mortified by, but extremely grateful.

Hecate was almost used to Pippa’s presence. She had never thought she would have the chance to reconcile with Pippa—let alone practically _live_ with her. Seeing Pippa in the morning through her open door at her dressing table, applying her eyeliner with a frankly irritating level of ease, felt like she had been bestowed a treasured gift. Hecate could not bring herself to broach the topic of the past, concerned that she could not give a reason for her behaviour, since it was so bound up in the issue of her confinement. Their conversations only ventured vaguely into their past, and rather danced around the issue of Hecate leaving, and not directly addressing the relationship they had shared as schoolgirls other than the non-verbal glances they shared as they both struck upon the same memory trigger in a turn of phrase, the way Pippa would walk in on Hecate working, or accidentally meeting in the hall on their way to the bathroom.

The weekend arrived, and the forecast looked less bleak than the rest of the week had been. Pippa suggested that they take Princess out for a ride, since it had been a few days since Hecate had needed her cane and the sky was mottled with only a light cloud amidst the wide blue expanse. Hecate was hesitant, but the thought of seeing Pippa riding her horse, not just off into the distance in the morning, was tempting indeed.

“I was thinking, there’s a field I pass on my way here from Pentangle’s. It’s just beyond the bridge. I don’t think it’s too far to walk, but— well, what do you think?”

Beyond the bridge—that was outside of the range that Hecate could travel from the castle. She tried not to let panic show on her face as she responded. “I do not think I would be able to make it. Perhaps somewhere closer by, just in case something were to happen.”

Pippa nodded. “That sounds more sensible.”

Hecate knew of a small clearing nearby on the mountainside between two stretches of forest that could function well. Pippa held the reins loosely, allowing Princess to walk with her along the path, while Hecate followed on Pippa’s other side. Hundreds of acorns were strewn over the path, crunching underfoot with almost every step as they went, and scattering as Princess’s hooves kicked them about. 

Before long, they reached the clearing—the wind whispering over the late wildflowers bobbing heads of white and red—Pippa strode ahead in her breeches while Hecate, tired from the walk, was a little behind, drawing her cloak around her against the breeze. Pippa summoned a blanket for Hecate to sit on, since the ground was cold and slightly damp. The autumnal leaves were gleaming like fiery gems in the trees overhead, burning with the same heat Hecate felt in her heart as she watched Pippa crouched next to Princess, tugging on the straps to check all the tack was securely attached. 

Pippa then took a pinch of the reins, before putting her foot into one of the stirrups and swung herself over in a fluid, powerful motion. Hecate held her breath as Pippa adopted a stance that seemed to be second nature to her, and with a click of her tongue, guided Princess around the clearing, gradually building up speed to a trot. She sat upright, her body rocking with the motion of her horse, the long tails of her jacket hanging aside Princess’s back—striking in the vibrant mulberry against her white body.

Pippa tilted her top hat to Hecate as she passed by her blanket. Princess’s muscles rippled under her white coat shining in the sun as her slender legs strode forwards and carried Pippa back down the clearing as a tremor went down Hecate’s spine. It was nigh ridiculous how much this new side of Pippa could undo her—with a single tilt of her top hat.

Hecate found her eyes drawn to the slow roll of Pippa’s hips in harmony with Princess’s trot. The horse seemed to be obeying the motions of her body more than anything, her head tucked in obediently, and allowed herself to be led with ease. Hecate realised that she was fascinated not as much by the horse as by her rider, whose dashing figure on the horse only added to her irresistible charm.

Hecate sat stiffly on the blanket, keeping her book inches from her nose so she did not appear as though she were staring at Pippa, when in fact she was guilty of doing exactly that. Soon her hands became too cold to hold the book without wearing gloves—she wished she could cast a warmth spell on them, but of course she could not. The book, along with her contrivance of reading, she stored in her sizeable inner cloak pocket, and she replaced her gloves, and tried to stay warm until Pippa finally came over to share some lunch with Hecate.

Hecate had prepared a simple picnic for them both—nothing special, since the outing had been a spur-of-the-moment decision inspired by the bright weather. She had taken off her gloves to eat, and as she passed a sandwich to Pippa, their hands touched.

“Hecate—you’re ice cold!”

Hecate said nothing as Pippa cupped her hands in her own, pulsing with life from her riding. Pippa hummed, her face serene, and the radiance from her hands began to glow from within, until Hecate felt the cold ache in her joints begin to be displaced by a warmth spell. 

When they had eaten, Pippa fed Princess a few chunks of apple, before she mounted her again and cantered off down to the other end of the clearing and performed to some choreographed movements of which Hecate could make no sense. Hecate looked down at her hands, the warmth of Pippa’s spell still within them, and felt comforted. She put her hands over her heart; the heat blossomed deep into her body.

Eventually, Pippa decided it was time they should head home. As they were making their way back to the cottage, Hecate had to hold her tongue on how much she admired Pippa’s skill in horseriding. There was much she wished to ask Pippa—how long had she been riding, was it difficult to stay in the saddle, what did it feel like to have the wind rush past you—but she remained mute, not wishing to sound foolish. Though the canopy overhead had been made sparser by the leaf fall and let quite a bit of light through, the sun was not warm; however, Hecate could still feel the last tingles of Pippa’s warmth spell in her fingertips. She would warm up when they returned home, where she could wrap her hands around a hot cup of tea.

Just as she was dreaming of warmth—footfalls that did not belong to her, Pippa, or Princess, dashed off to one side. Hecate froze in her tracks, and shot a glance at Pippa. “Did— did you hear something?”

Pippa halted Princess, and raised her chin and looked into the distance as she listened. “No.”

Hecate searched the tree line with narrowed eyes. For a moment, it had sounded like someone had been following them. 

“Let’s get back,” Pippa said warily, her brow hardened with worry.

Hecate nodded, and they continued their journey quickly and cautiously. The wind picked up, and the sky clouded over, and neither of them spoke a word as vigilance and concern occupied their minds.

The familiar trellis archway engulfed in thorns, and through it, the door she had come to dread no more, was a welcome sight. Hecate was exhausted, even though she had not done as much exercise as Pippa must have done, and wanted nothing more than to sit by the fire with tea. 

Pippa paused outside the arch. “Why don’t you go in ahead while I put Princess away?”

Hecate nodded in grateful agreement. “Tea?”

“I would love a cup,” Pippa smiled, looking blissfully back at her, before patting Princess’s pink nose and leading her to the paddock.

Hecate went up to the front door, unlocked it, and sank into the warmth of the kitchen. It had been a long time since Hecate had felt this kind of solidity—permanence. While she had a good relationship with Ada, there had always been a professional distance—like a great-aunt one considered family but had to dress up to see. Hecate could no longer pretend to herself that keeping Pippa at distance was a possibility. Pippa was the family she needed, the compassion she craved, and the heart she desired.

* * *

The next morning, Hecate looked shyly up at Pippa from her bowl of muesli.

“Pippa, I have something for you—”

Pippa’s interest was piqued. Even though it was early morning, and a Monday, and she was always a little less enthusiastic, her eyes widened. “What is it?”

Hecate pushed a set of keys over the island, her heart beating so hard that she thought Pippa must be able to hear it. “You really ought to have your own set. I should have given it to you days ago, but I kept forgetting until you had already left.”

“Thank you, Hecate,” Pippa murmured, taking the keys. Hecate was not sure if it was as significant a moment for Pippa as it was for her.

* * *

“How are you feeling?” Pippa’s look of concern was visible on her face.

“Tired,” Hecate said truthfully.

Pippa had just come back from her day at Pentangle’s. Yesterday’s outing seemed to have tired Hecate more than they had anticipated—she had spent much of that day asleep, and Pippa was worried she was coming down with something. It was fortunate that Pippa had had the prescience to bring back with her some tupperware fresh from a lovely Thai takeaway in the village by Pentangle’s.

“You _said_ you would have a relaxing bath but I’m positive you haven’t yet.”

“I have not. I apologise if I have offended you. I merely have not had the impulse to,” Hecate admitted.

“I’m going to run you a bath right now.”

“You really don’t have to—”

Pippa had already left the room to the bathroom, and the sound of water beginning to thunder out of the taps told her that this was non-negotiable. Hecate hesitated before following. Pippa was kneeling by the bath, energy channelling from her hands to make the water fill faster. Hecate leant on the doorway, rubbing her thumb along the wood grain.

“I was thinking—” Pippa said, looking up as Hecate arrived “—why don’t we do tonight’s treatment while you’re relaxing in the bath?”

Hecate flushed ruby red, or so it felt. “I am quite a private person.” She could not bring herself to explain further and let Pippa come to her own conclusions.

“The water goes opaque. Look.” Pippa shook the bath salts into the bath, and the water turned a milky pink. 

“Of course it is pink,” Hecate said, putting her hand into the water and seeing it disappear completely. Not being able to be seen was only really half her issue—magically-coloured water or not, she was still going to feel incredibly vulnerable in front of Pippa.

Pippa shrugged, a guilty expression on her face. “It’s a relaxing colour. But I can change it if you’d like,” she said, lowering her fingers to the water.

“No— really— it is fine,” Hecate muttered, hastily dismissing the idea of debating the colour of bath water. 

Pippa folded her arms. “You’re resisting. I can’t tell if it’s because you’re genuinely uncomfortable or if you’re just being obtuse. But— if you really don’t want to, the treatment can wait until after.”

Hecate took her weight off the doorway and drew herself up to her full height, hands stiffening at her sides. “I will— try it,” she forced herself to say.

“Excellent,” Pippa said, her lips curving into a smile, and her cheeks glowing. She reached up to a shelf, upon which were numerous candles, and set some up around the edge of the bath, lighting them individually with a delicate point of her finger. “I’ll let you get in. Tell me when you’re ready and we can begin.”

Pippa left her alone in the bathroom, dimming the lights as she left, leaving the softly flickering candles around the bath as the brightest sources of light. Hecate closed the door firmly, and began to disrobe in the semi-darkness, folding her clothing neatly and putting it discreetly to one side. She put her hand into the water to check the temperature. It was hot, but not unbearably so. 

Hecate let herself sink into the gently pink water. The heat had an immediate effect on her—she had expected to be distracted by her own thoughts intrusively dictating how she ought to be spending her time better doing something else, but her thoughts were deadened by the feel of warmth closing in around her, not unlike Pippa’s warming spell she had cast on her hands over the weekend. It helped that she could not see her body beneath the water, idly doing nothing; the light from the candles nestled into the corners cast a diffuse glow across the surface of the water. As she moved her arms into a more comfortable position, the gentle ripples sent shadows of cooler pink shimmering across the surface, then cresting into the warm light from the multiple flames, like the waves on a beach at sunset. 

While Hecate had never been to a beach, nor seen a sunset over one, she had seen videos of them during “Ordinary movie night”, a tradition that Miss Drill had tried to start as a ‘fun’ experience for the staff that had not quite caught on. Expelling thoughts of Dimity Drill and her movie nights from her mind, Hecate buried herself in the water until she could feel it covering her collarbone.

“P—Pippa?” Hecate called uncertainly, unsure of how far from the door Pippa might be, and fully aware of how awkward it felt to be calling anyone—let alone _Pippa Pentangle_—into the bathroom with her, while she was in the bath.

The door edged open. Hecate could not see Pippa enter from her position; she was faced away from the door, but as the light from the hallway cascaded across the tiled floor, she could see Pippa’s slippered feet enter and retreat to close the door. A shadow moved across as she closed it— and up onto the edge of the bath leapt Pepper.

“Oh, Pepper—” Pippa groaned, as he began to reach a paw out to touch the water. Hecate stiffened immediately as she grew concerned that the cat might slip into her bath with her, which would be enjoyable for none present. Pippa swiftly seized him under the chest with a single hand before even a toe bean could make contact with the pink water and cradled him in her arms.

“Sorry about him. He loves playing with bath water. I don’t mind when it’s me but he doesn’t seem to know that this isn’t the right time.”

Hecate peered back at the bundle of fur who was watching her with curious amber eyes from amidst his mistress’s pink-clothed arms. Pippa opened the door again and chucked him out, making sure he did not come in again before closing it securely.

“Has he ever— fallen in?” Hecate asked cautiously.

“Oh yes, all the time. He’s not terribly bright,” Pippa laughed. The sound made her stomach twist with joy. “He likes to dip his paw into the water because he knows he’s not allowed. He has to get a shower after if he fully falls in because of the salt content. Let’s just say he’s not a fan. Now, put your head back and try to relax into the heat.”

The steam rose up around her head; the water lapping up to her hairline on the back of her neck as she laid back against the cool porcelain. Pepper’s surprise appearance had broken the tension in the room in just the right way such that Hecate felt slightly more at ease. She had never felt as much trust as she did now that Pippa would try to make this experience as soothing as possible for her, and felt slightly guilty at her petty reluctance earlier.

The candles wavered lazily as Pippa led her through a breathing meditation. Her eyes were half-closed, struggling to stay open as she let her muscles free of the tension. The heat of the water aided in her undoing of the tightness she held in herself. Pippa _had_ been correct—this was not a negative experience, although she knew that were she on her own, she would feel differently. 

Pippa’s voice soon ascended from spoken word to song. Hecate was well aware of what to expect by now—but this new environment came with new sensations—the lights from the spell reflecting in the water—the smell of wax—the water lapping against her body—Pippa’s song echoing strangely in the bathroom acoustics—and now, more than ever, she needed to quieten the way her heart was still beating with the memory of Pippa—smiling—tasting the food Hecate had made her—tipping her hat—riding away into the morning mists—

Her arms folded crosswise over her chest as she leant forward in anguish of the explosion of emotion inside her; one hand clutched the back her neck, and the other around her back to where she felt the hard shape of her shoulder blade. The water was no longer comforting; she only felt naked and raw. Pippa crouched down next to her and reached out for her shoulder, but Hecate flinched away. 

“Hecate—”

“I need to get out.” Hecate forced the words from herself.

“Of course,” said Pippa at once, her voice faltering. “You should shower to rinse any residue off. I’ve left a bath robe on the back of the door if you would like to wear that after.” Pippa averted her gaze, before leaving Hecate with her mind in a spiralling haze.

Hecate slipped out of the bath and drained it, before turning on the shower for it to come to temperature. She let herself in, and closed the glass door, sealing herself within. The water cascaded over her body; she felt numb as the water drummed against her skin. 

She could not stay in for long. The water was too hot but at the same time, not hot enough. It was contradictory and confusing and it went against all the rationalism that Hecate thought was her cornerstone. Her thoughts were erratic, and she craved for a peaceful moment—she needed everything to be still, no water crashing down around her or feelings burning her inside.

Hecate freed herself from the shower—dried herself with a fresh towel—put on the bath robe. Amidst all the other things that were not making sense—it at least hugged softly against her skin. Collecting her pile of clothes, she left the steamy bathroom and fled for the safety of her room.

Her room was cool—or perhaps was simply a normal temperature after the heat of the bathroom. She put her clothing into the laundry basket and collapsed onto her bed. It was a relief to be alone.

Morgana pawed at the front of the robe. Hecate secured it better over her body and lifted Morgana to her chest so she could rest her paws on Hecate’s shoulder.

Morgana turned her head suddenly towards the door, right before Hecate heard a knocking, hesitantly, three times. 

“Come in,” Hecate said, not looking towards the doorway as Pippa entered.

Out of the corner of her eye, she could tell that Pippa’s stance was different to how it usually was—meeker—and she was already changed into her night robe of pink and gold silk and her soft fuzzy slippers. “I’m really sorry to bother you, Hecate, but may I use a Sight spell?”

“You may.”

Hecate continued to not look at Pippa. She was standing back further than she normally did for casting the Sight spell. Hecate needed the space, and Pippa was likely to be able to sense that.

“Could you move Morgana?”

“Of course,” said Hecate at once, shifting the reluctant cat from her shoulder. Her hand went instinctively to adjust the robe to cover more of her chest. She wasn’t used to wearing anything quite so open, and wished that it would button up to her throat rather than hanging flimsily open with just a tie about the waist to hold it together.

“Thank you. That’s all I needed.”

Pippa left abruptly. It took a few moments for Hecate to realise that Pippa must be incredibly upset about something.

Hecate gathered up Morgana in her arms, and went to Pippa’s door to check on her. The landing was cloaked in darkness, yet Hecate knew it well enough that she did not need to wait for her eyes to adjust. She knocked softly, and at a confirmation from Pippa, entered.

Pippa was sat up in her bed, the duvet drawn up over her waist as she stroked Pepper in silence. The beside lamp was the only light on in the room; it cast a shadow across most of Pippa’s face. She looked up as Hecate entered, and gave a half-smile.

“Something’s wrong, isn’t it?”

Pippa shook her head. “No, Hecate, I’m fine.”

Hecate approached the bed, and hovered there for a moment. “I don’t wish to press you, but I can tell that you are not yourself tonight.”

Pippa shrugged, her expression unreadable. “I was just— worried about you. You seem to have strong reactions to the treatment. I was concerned, but the Sight spell told me that everything is progressing well.”

“If you are sure,” Hecate said, as a restless Morgana tumbled out of her arms onto Pippa’s bed. Pippa reached out and buried her fingers in Morgana’s luxuriant fur.

“I am.”

Hecate turned to leave.

“Hecate.”

She looked back, and met Pippa’s eyes, which had lost their usual golden glint in the half-darkness.

“Thank you for checking on me.”

Hecate swallowed, and inclined her head in an awkward nod. Morgana seemed content to remain with Pippa, so she went back to her bedroom alone. She lay awake for hours, restless surrounded by the pale gold hangings around her bed—thinking of Pippa in her bed just across the hall—wretched with shame over the way she had broken down earlier.

* * *

Hecate awoke to a very chilly morning. It was still before dawn, but Hecate needed to get out of bed; she had hardly slept after what had happened last night, but she felt now that staying in bed was not any more likely to lull her to sleep.

She crept out into the hall, not wanting to wake Pippa—but Pippa’s door was open, and the bed clothes neatly made already. A glow of light was cast up the stairs through the bannister from downstairs. It was unusual for Pippa to be awake before her. 

Hecate went downstairs towards the light—it was coming from the sitting room. She peered in to see Pippa, legs folded up, sitting in the armchair by the empty fire grate, tears streaming down her face, as Pepper lay coiled up in her lap.

“Pippa—?”

Pippa looked up at once and carefully wiped the tears away so as not to smudge her makeup. “Hecate,” Pippa said with a false smile, evidently trying to pretend that she had not just been caught crying. “You’re awake.”

Hecate stared at Pippa incredulously. For someone usually so open with her emotions, she was being incredibly stoic. “You are up so early. What’s wrong? Did something happen? Something at Pentangle’s?”

“No, everything’s fine.”

Hecate took a step forwards, as if physically being nearer to Pippa would help her become emotionally closer. “Why were you crying?” 

Pippa’s smile failed to reach her eyes, which were still shining with tears. “Please don’t make me answer that.”

“Very well,” Hecate whispered, and turned to leave.

“I should really get back to Pentangle’s,” Pippa said briskly. “We’ll have to skip this morning’s treatment. Big assembly this morning. I’ll— I’ll see you— later.”

Pippa scooped up Pepper, who wrapped himself around her neck like a scarf, and she brushed past Hecate as she went to the front door, taking her hat from the coat stand. Hecate, shaken to her core by this sudden change to their routine—by Pippa’s strange behaviour—watched as she opened the door, letting the cold air and a swirl of drizzle sweep in.

“Hecate— I—” Pippa lingered in the doorway for a moment, top hat in her hands, and half turned to face Hecate. 

Hecate felt her throat catch as she felt the heaviness of the moment— hoping that whatever came next would have some softness, any moment of relief—

“—It doesn’t matter. Stay safe.” And she left, closing the door.

A few minutes later, Hecate heard the sound of Pippa cry out to spur on her horse, and the hoof-falls pound on the damp dirt path. She was paralysed for a moment, before a moment of clarity seized her; she rushed to the door and wrenched it open to see her ride away, but the form bent close to her white horse was already far away.

Hecate flung herself through the doorway and ran—ran frantically out of the garden—under the arch—on, on through the misty rain, her muscles screaming out in agony, her chest heaving with the effort—puddles of murky water splashing over her night-clothes. 

She could no longer make out Princess’s white ghostly form in the dark. Her pace slowed, and the heavy impacts suddenly became apparent as they sent tremors up her legs with each step. She would never be able to catch up.

* * *

Pippa was not back later.

Hecate had waited for her— on the counter, a patchwork of fresh semolina-dusted ravioli ready and waiting to be thrown into a happily simmering pot of water. 

But Princess’s hooves did not thunder down the path, nor did Pippa let herself in with her key, hang up her top hat, or shrug out of her riding jacket and ask what Hecate had prepared for dinner.

She told herself that Pippa was held up—that some emergency or another was preventing her from coming. The dramatic way Pippa had left that morning was hanging in the back of her mind, threatening that something was wrong. Hecate went up to her bedroom and sat by the mirror, staring at her own reflection haggard with stress, waiting for Pippa’s call.

Maybe something had happened to Princess on the ride over—she would be stuck halfway between both schools. But even then, she would be able to send a message ahead, like she had done before. Anxiety waxed and waned in her mind as she tried to find answers for every possible reason why Pippa was not here, all the while looking into the pools of her own eyes in the mirror, feeling every second of her age as she worried herself into exhaustion.

The mirror suddenly zinged with magic—Hecate’s heart jumped into her throat as she answered, ready for Pippa’s face to appear—

“Ada,” Hecate said, confused as the name tumbled out of her mouth. This was wrong.

“Hecate,” Ada replied in her kindly voice. “I’ve just had a message from Miss Pentangle.”

“Yes, she has not arrived yet. I was starting to—”

“She isn’t coming, Hecate.”

Hecate could not find words. Ada’s face before her looked troubled. 

“She has told me that she has been having difficulty keeping up with your treatments and her duties as headmistress. She sends her apologies, but she or I will find a suitable replacement.”

Hecate remained silent. Her tongue felt too large in her mouth to speak.

“Would you like for me to come over for dinner? Since I imagine you will be alone otherwise tonight.”

“No— thank you.”

Ada wished her a good night, and ended the call.

Hecate drifted downstairs. The saucepan was cold on the stove. Everything was just where she had left it.

Pippa was not coming back.

* * *

Even though Pippa had stayed but a week, already the cottage had been transformed by her presence, such that now her absence was unbearable.

Everything seemed so much more empty without Pippa around. All throughout the cottage were signs of where she had been—flashes of pink memories where Hecate thought she glimpsed her—in the kitchen—applying her makeup in her room—shadows crossing in front of the doorway. But they were all simply part of her imagination. Pippa had since transferred everything she had left in her bedroom out at some point. The surfaces were all barren—the wardrobe emptied of all colour.

The paddock where Hecate had grown accustomed to seeing Princess felt lonely without the sweet pink-nosed beast, pure white in the gloomy forest. Even though she had not been there all the time, each time Hecate had to walk past the paddock on her way back from collecting herbs, she always stopped by the fence for the horse to trot over for a nibble of whatever delicate green shoots she had in her basket. But of course, Hecate had watched them both ride away that cursed morning.

Morgana had taken to clinging unrepentingly to Hecate’s side once more; now that Pepper had gone, she was alone again. Hecate had been so used to finding them cuddling together in the warmest spots in the cottage that her heart ached to see Morgana wandering the cottage, mewing for Pepper, or sitting alone in the windowsill, watching the rain. Hecate found herself craving Morgana’s presence more than ever. She patted her lap whenever she saw her and Morgana would jump up onto her, and purr as Hecate stroked her long, silky fur.

That afternoon, she had been planning on a stroll around to gather wild mushrooms to try to get a grip on some form of new routine. It felt strange to be free to go out when she should have been planning her evening meal with Pippa. A chill emanated from the front door as she slipped into her boots, reminding her to don her cloak and gloves before she left. As she lifted her cloak from the coat stand, the folds caught a piece of startlingly pastel fabric; on the hook underneath was the fuzzy haze of Pippa’s scarf. 

Her scarf was still hanging by the door.

_“If I leave it here again, it’ll mean that I have to come back for it.”_

Liar.

* * *

Miss Bat, with her expertise in chanting magic, was appointed as Pippa’s replacement. Hecate was glad in a way that it was someone she at least trusted somewhat, although she knew that modern magic was not Miss Bat’s strong suit.

“I’m afraid I am not as in tune with Miss Pentangle’s modern techniques, but she has told me a great deal about them and I have done quite a bit of practising in my lessons of late,” she had said during their first session together, the evening after Pippa had failed to return to Westwood Lodge. “A shame she’s too busy now to continue—I suppose being headmistress of another school and having to travel back and forth every morning and night can really take a lot out of one.”

Hecate did not think it wise to inform Miss Bat that Miss Pentangle had in fact been spending her nights here.

“Come through to the sitting room. Lying down seems to allow the magic to connect with greater ease,” Hecate said. She knew she must pretend as though the sitting room sofa was where she had lain for the treatment. There was something very intimate about the way that Pippa had performed the chant while she was in bed, with her hair spread out around her—or as with their last treatment, with Hecate in the bath. That was something she could certainly not share with Miss Bat.

Miss Bat seemed almost clumsy in the way that she launched directly into the chant as soon as Hecate had laid down—so used was she to Pippa gradually easing her in with a meditation. Her voice was also nothing like Pippa’s. While still lovely, her voice wavered with age, and her natural vibrato did not as confidently carry the melody as Pippa’s did. Hecate waited for the harmony, ready for her thoughts to transcend into the sublime, but it did not come.

Hecate did feel the sensation of her emotions upon herself—although it was more of a gradual ebb than the heady rush that floored her when Pippa performed the chant—and then in the aftermath, the numbness was not nearly as overpowering. She could even manage to hold a conversation with Miss Bat afterwards.

“How do you find it—accessing and using modern magic?” Hecate asked, as she sat up, feeling almost as if she had recovered already.

“I thought about someone—someone I’ve lost. All the things I wish I’d said to him—that’s what I put into the song,” Miss Bat responded, smiling distantly.

Hecate raised her eyebrows. For all their time teaching together, not even when Hecate had been a student under her, Hecate had never once suspected Gwendolyn of having much of a history with romance. 

“The key to her spell, you see, is love. No wonder the poor dear had difficulty. For all her glamour, I don’t think she’s ever been properly in love.”

“She was, once,” Hecate said wistfully, almost to herself. Miss Bat must not have heard, because she had got to her feet and went to the kitchen to make a pot of tea.

* * *

Hecate found herself at a loose end, without Pippa coming and going to structure her day. Miss Bat’s presence simply did not require any mental preparation—there was no sorrow as Pippa left in the morning, no rush of excitement as she planned for Pippa’s return from Pentangle’s during the day. Even when Miss Bat stayed for dinner—which she did a few times, on account of Hecate’s delicious cooking—there was no feeling.

Hecate decided she would throw herself into work. She mirrored Miss Nightscribe to ask her to send over the resources she would need to continue conducting their analysis.

“But Miss Hardbroom— I thought Miss Cackle had said you weren’t to do any work.”

“I need to do _something_. And send me that syllabus of yours.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

Whether it was the note of desperation in Hecate’s voice or out of a sense of duty considering the favour that Hecate had promised her, Miss Nightscribe indeed transferred over a weighty amount of books later that day, the report Miss Nightscribe had written for Miss Cackle, and the data, along with a note that she could visit to present the curriculum that would commence the start of her teaching career.

She siphoned through the data from the Grey Gloaming—raked the books for any kind of precedent for what had happened, particularly looking for dryads who had abandoned their trees. 

Thoughts bombarded her in a chaotic flurry—fragments of sentences—Pippa, tipping her hat—soil moisture levels—the prevalence of dryads in British woodlands—Pippa, unlocking the door with her key and coming home—Pippa, curled up on the armchair, crying—

Her quill hovered over the page, trembling. She inked a line, but then turned it into a P. _Pippa_, she found herself writing.

_Pippa,_

_I do not expect you to even open this, recognising, as you must, my handwriting on the envelope._

_I would not wish to disturb the distance that I suspect you need from me, but I find myself unable to think—to breathe—knowing that you have been potentially upset for something that I have done._

_I must convey my sincere apology for the way in which I repaid your kindness with nothing but complaints, obstinacy, and hurt. It was never my intention to cause you any distress or make your life more difficult. I do not expect you to forgive me but I hope that in some way I can start the process of making amends._

_Please—if it is not too painful to reflect upon—tell me whether the reason you gave for not wishing to continue my treatment was true, or whether it was to excuse yourself from my presence specifically. It must have been difficult to work with me; I may seem recalcitrant towards your modern methods, but know that I was trying, and that my resistance was due to my emotional response to the spell. I feel that my knowing whether my behaviour upset you or not will help me not to make the same mistake in future, and help me be more mindful of the effect of my actions and words._

_Gwendolyn Bat has been continuing in your stead, as I am sure you are aware. Her grasp of modern magic is very limited, and I fear that her magic may not be honed enough to cure me, as I have not felt the same effects when she has performed the chant. Not able to accurately determine the level to which my magic has been repaired since she took over, I do not know whether this is the case._

_I hope this letter has not been a source of distress for you, and also that you have been able to catch up with your duties as headmistress. Please forgive me my foolishness. I only send my warmest feelings to you._

Hecate hesitated at the sign-off. 

_Yours_

The ink glistened on the parchment. She _would_ be Pippa’s—she would, were it not for the confinement— and the painful distance that Hecate had forced between them almost three decades ago. It was a long time to have carried that weight around.

_ Yours truly,_

She had to re-load her quill between the words and the _truly_ was heavier than the _Yours_; to Hecate it looked painfully obvious that she had lingered over the sign-off, but to most it would likely not draw attention.

Hecate signed her name.

* * *

When Miss Nightscribe visited to discuss her curriculum, almost as soon as she walked in the door, Hecate pressed the letter into her hands. She stared at Hecate, bewildered.

“Before we begin, Miss Nightscribe— it is essential that this letter should reach Miss Pentangle. Please, could you possibly— transfer it to her for me?”

The librarian nodded, and performed the gesture over it without question.

* * *

The days that followed, without news from Pippa, without even an acknowledgement that she had received the letter, were a constant struggle.

As she scrubbed a saucepan in the dirty dish water, hands wrapped in yellow rubber Marigolds, she thought on the incredible sense of loss that she must revisit, returning to her once again from the years that had followed her first split from Pippa Pentangle.

She had almost mirrored Miss Nightscribe to ask her to try to glean confirmation that Pippa had in fact found the letter that she had transferred, but she felt that it was certainly an abuse of the librarian’s feelings towards her to ask that of her.

Pippa’s silence seemed final. It now felt as though all the chapters of her history with Pippa that they had been re-writing were suddenly, forcefully ripped out of the narrative that they had come together to tell. Hecate ought to have known that their domestic bliss would never have lasted. The wounds she had left in Pippa ran too deep for them to ever fully reconcile. How great was the pain that her decision caused Pippa—and how irrevocable the rejection that she had given her. Pippa had borne the weight of Hecate’s confinement without knowledge of it. For Hecate’s childhood error they had both suffered. 

It was not right. Hecate had intended to set Pippa free from all the burden that her crimes meant she had to carry, but instead she had torn her down with her. Hecate was not the insignificant footnote that she always hoped she would become in Pippa’s life.

Mildred Hubble had mirrored to ask if she could come over to play chess, but Hecate refused her, saying she was too busy. The last time the chess set had been used was when Pippa had touched it—when she had been so distracted by Pippa’s eyes that she had not noticed her lining up Hecate’s perfect demise. No, she did not deserve visitors. Had it not been for Miss Bat visiting, Hecate would not have committed herself to cooking just for herself. She had come to the conclusion that when it was just her, there was no need for anything elaborate. She would eat only that which would sustain her.

She put the glass casserole dish on the plastic rack, covered in frothy bubbles that slid down into the rivulets of the draining board. She would learn to be lonely again. She had to.

* * *

Miss Bat had gone a few hours ago, but the night was turbulent with a heavy rain that refused to ease off. Hecate had been sitting at her desk, reading, for a few hours after a light dinner of some bread and cheese. 

She watched the low candle in its metal holder on her desk idly as her attention drifted from the page. It had been a week since Pippa had left, with those words—“I’ll be back later.” 

As she flicked her eyes back to the page, the rain clattered against the window pane, streaming down in relentlessly falling droplets. It was a night she was glad to have to herself, indoors, where it was warm and dry—although no, she could not quite convince herself that the presence of Pippa Pentangle would not improve the evening, she had indeed in her fervent loneliness burned through many evening candles as well as the delivery of books that Miss Nightscribe had transferred to her. If anything, without Pippa she was driven to enforced productiveness.

Below the sound of rain, Hecate thought she could detect another sound—doubtless, a branch striking against another tree, but there was something about it that made her throat ache, and sent her heart pattering for some reason. It was then she realised that it was the slow sound of stumbling hooves—Hecate dropped her book immediately and fled down the stairs to unlock the door.

Through the hammering rain, by the light of the kitchen thrown across the garden, the silhouette of a figure on a horse stood just beyond the garden wall. It could only be Pippa, mounted on Princess—but something was wrong. She was slumped in the saddle, clinging onto her mare’s neck, whose white coat was streaked with mud. Hecate pulled on her boots and dashed out into the rain.

As she approached, Hecate’s eyes were drawn to Pippa’s crumpled form. By the half light that fell through the arch from the cottage, she could make out dark angry burns from spell blasts that had ripped right through the back of her riding jacket. The cold air and cutting rain pressed ice through her skin, but it was nothing compared to the heartbreak of the sight of Pippa after all those days—and the shock and terror of seeing her wounded.

“I— I know where the dryads have gone,” Pippa breathed, before falling from the saddle.

Hecate darted forwards and half-caught Pippa’s form as she fell, managing at least soften the blow and prevent her head from hitting the ground. Pippa’s form was heavy in her arms and her clothes sodden with rain, but adrenaline surged as she lifted Pippa’s body off the floor. 

She had to get her inside—Hecate, frenzied with outrage and fear, dragged her over the path, in through the front door, down the living room step, almost tripping, and heaved her onto the sofa, lifting her legs separately up to the soft surface. Her arms buzzed with the effort, but she had managed it.

She gently unbuttoned the wet jacket, peeling it off—the rain had soaked through the tweed to the silk lining over her shoulders, where the rain would have fallen on her the heaviest. Hecate, hands trembling, also removed the tie from her precious throat.

“Pippa?” Hecate uttered.

Pippa was still unconscious. Hecate wanted to stroke the damp hair from her forehead, but could not bring her quivering hand any closer to her face. By the gentle rise and fall of her chest, Hecate could tell she seemed to be breathing and not in any distress. She folded the throw from the back of the sofa over her to keep her warm—the best she could do without magic—and gazed into Pippa’s serene face, before she remembered poor Princess outside, still saddled and cold in the rain.

The rain was driving harder than before, and Hecate felt her clothing instantly soak through, and droplets course down her face and ran into her eyes as she approached Princess, who was trembling, shaking rain out of her own fearful deep brown eyes.

She took the reins, and tried to coax the horse to follow her into the paddock, which was by now churned to mud by the rain. The horse reared—Hecate thought she was about to lose control—but as Hecate whispered a few gentle encouraging words, she seemed to cool off enough to be led into the stable, barely noticing as mud splashed up onto the hem of her skirt.

Hecate made shushing sounds as she looped the reins over a post on the gate in Princess’s pen, hoping this was calming to the mare, while her own thoughts reeled as they fixed on the wounded form of Pippa indoors. The strong smell of the stable was so unfamiliar to her; she felt keenly once more how inexperienced she was and just how rich and fulfilling Pippa’s life must be that she had such intimate knowledge of a vast array of subjects. However, knowing as she did, next to nothing about horses, she could assume that the saddle and bridle were not comfortable for Princess to stay in overnight, especially when wet.

She crouched hesitantly and located the buckles for the saddle and bridle, careful not to walk behind Princess in case those powerful back legs should kick out. The leather was worn and supple as she eased the ends of the straps loose from the buckles—Princess’s body hot and damp against her fingers whose joints ached with cold. The saddle seemed to weigh much more than Hecate had expected; with the awkward angle, she could barely lift it from Princess’s body, but willed strength into her limbs, thinking of how much Pippa cared for the beautiful creature, and cast it off with the last of her energy. 

Hecate found a towel in some storage shelves and began to dry Princess off as best she could, making soothing sounds as she did so, and hoping that the mare would be all right. She checked her over for any wounds to ensure that Princess had not been caught by any of the spell fire, but there was no evidence of blood or burns under the mud. 

Hecate went back out into the relentless rain, feeling her feet squelch with each step in her sodden shoes, and hurried back indoors. Pippa had not moved from the sofa—Hecate struggled as fast as she could upstairs to her room.

In the moment before she touched the mirror chit to the surface, Hecate caught a glimpse of how bedraggled she looked—her hair streaked down her face from the usually tight bun, and her blouse clung to her body in wet folds. Yet it hardly seemed important at the moment.

Ada appeared on the mirror, taken aback by Hecate’s appearance. “Hecate, is everything all right?”

“Ada, it’s Pippa— she’s hurt. I need someone to transfer her back to the castle urgently. Someone has attacked her with hostile magic—”

Ada’s colour drained from her face; she did not wait to cut the mirror connection before transferring into Hecate’s bedroom. A dizzying whirl solidified into Ada’s shape, her mauve cardigan bright in the room.

“Where is she?”

“Downstairs in the sitting room. I could not move her any further—”

Ada hurried downstairs, Hecate in pursuit, telling her in a broken voice of the brief details of how she had arrived and the words that she had said.

“This is grave news indeed,” Ada said, inspecting Pippa’s wounds. “But what did she mean? Dryads don’t have this power. No,” Ada shook her head. “This is the work of a witch’s magic.”

Ada’s words chilled her to the bone. She had feared as much, but hearing it spoken out loud made the reality sink in. What kind of witch would want to hurt Pippa Pentangle?

“Perhaps the witch who attacked her has captured the dryads somewhere.”

“We can’t know until she wakes. I’ll transfer her directly to the hospital wing,” Ada said, putting her hand over Pippa’s. “We can treat this kind of spell burn very easily with the right potion. You were right to call me.”

Hecate nodded painfully. She desperately did not want Pippa to be taken away again, after she had only just returned— but—

“Go,” she urged Ada.

The two of them vanished into a spiral of fragments on the air. Hecate stepped forward, falling to her knees beside the sofa, shakily reaching out for the discarded waterlogged jacket, and clutching it to her body. The rain squeezed out and seeped into her own clothes as she held it tightly to herself, craving the residual warmth where Pippa’s body had once been but feeling mostly icy cold water.

A crinkling sound came from the inside pocket and broke her out of her reverie. Hecate looked inside and found a slightly damp envelope. She removed it before her sense of propriety could prevent her, and saw the single thing written on the front—

_Hecate_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY NOT SORRY
> 
> Pippa Pentangle has always had horse girl energy for me and now I'm going public with this chapter and outright giving her that. She deserves it. I've had to suffer for like an entire week with my ads now showing me a thousand different equestrian womenswear and no one to s c r e m about it to so,,
> 
> I did MATHS based on the few sources we have on how far Pentangle's is from Cackle's and the distance is definitely one that a horse could travel in just over an hour. Probably.
> 
> On "yellow rubber Marigolds" - Marigolds are a brand of kitchen gloves. Possibly only UK. 
> 
> This didn't take that long to write but I'm gonna have a super busy week ahead so next update will take a little longer than this one (which was like 8 days or something for this almost 14k monster so I don't feel TOO guilty tbh!!)
> 
> Thank you for reading! I am amazed you all keep coming back :')
> 
> Heathcliff  
@heathtrash on tumblr and twitter


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pippa's news brings concern over Hecate's safety. A threat looms over the castle as Hallowe'en approaches.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “I gave you all I had, but it wasn’t sufficient. I loved you wrongly, I suppose; but I loved you, I loved you!’”  
Vita Sackville-West, _Challenge_
> 
> cw for grief and heavy emotional stuff

Hecate knelt by the sofa where Pippa had laid last night, before Ada had transferred her away. There were still some marks from where the mud on Pippa’s boots had rested on the upholstery. Hecate had not cleaned them off. Placing her hand in the ghost of Pippa’s presence, she thought about how for a brief moment she had thought that Pippa was _back_, but there had been no time to talk before she had slipped from consciousness.

The letter lay on the kitchen counter, still sealed in its envelope, the paper crinkled and slightly mottled with rain. It was hers by the name on the front in Pippa’s neat hand, but it also was not hers. Pippa had not made the decision to give it to her—Hecate had merely taken it from the inner pocket of Pippa’s riding jacket, where it had been nestled close to the beating heart of the woman for whom she cared so much.

Hecate had not slept all night since she had found Pippa. It was foolish; yet she had not been able to rest, imagining Pippa being attacked, the pain she had been put through riding back here—and the lingering question of why Pippa had turned up when she had indicated that she wanted nothing to do with her. 

And yet, Pippa had been riding that night—on her way to see Hecate, potentially. Surely she would not have been carrying the letter otherwise. The letter, whatever it contained, was evidently so important that it had to be hand-delivered. Just as she herself had been concerned lest her own letter had gone undelivered or lost in any way, Pippa had gone the extra step—or the extra fifteen-odd miles—to ensure that hers was definitely received into Hecate’s hands.

But now that the letter was there, in her reach, she could not bring herself to read it. It had reached its intended recipient, yet without Pippa’s express consent. She did not wish to upset Pippa by reading something that was private. After all, this _was_ just conjecture—Hecate could not know that this letter was definitely for her, even though it had her name upon the envelope—and it might not be the final draft of the letter, of course. Perhaps Pippa was not intending to deliver it at all, and was merely riding towards Cackle’s for other business. She had every right to go riding where she pleased without worrying that someone would steal and read her personal, private documents. Of course, the temptation to peek was there, but Hecate’s self-discipline was strong. The most she could do was bring it to her mouth and hover her lips over it, aching to kiss where Pippa’s hand had rested to write it her name, yet she was fearful of leaving a telltale mark on the rain-rippled paper.

She put her cheek against the sofa, exhausted, eyes stinging with lack of sleep. It was just after dawn, and hopefully with the rising sun would come news from the castle. Pippa’s wounds, while incapacitating, were nothing that the castle’s store of cures and potions could not heal. Regardless, Hecate knew that it should have been she who took Pippa to the castle—she who administered the cure—she who should have been the first person Pippa would see once she awoke. Without her magic, however, that was impossible.

* * *

Hecate decided to clean herself up in case she received a call from Ada. It would arouse suspicion if she were still in the same damp muddy clothes as she had worn last night, with her hair disorderly. She had a hot shower to expel the ache from sitting in her damp clothes all night, put on a fresh, dry outfit, and made herself some tea. She had also stared into the fridge, wondering if there was anything she could stomach to eat, but nothing had seemed appealing.

Hecate picked up the tome she had been working her way through, even though she already had forgotten what the subject matter was. Thankfully, a mirror call availed her of the responsibility of deceiving herself that she was in the right state of mind to attempt any kind of concentration—though in the fluster to answer the call, the book tumbled out of her hands not once, but three times as she tried to prevent it from falling. 

“Ada,” Hecate said, managing her tone into something that did not sound too panicked or overly eager.

“Hecate, I thought I’d let you know I’m sending Dimity to pick you up,” Ada said, sounding harried. “Pack up your things as quickly as you can.”

Hecate blinked several times. This was not the information she had anticipated at all. “I am to return to the castle?”

“Immediately. Miss Pentangle has awoken and told me of the attack she suffered,” Ada responded darkly. “We cannot allow the same thing to happen to you, particularly when you do not have your magic to defend you. You will be much safer up here in the castle.”

“But Ada—”

Ada looked over her spectacles at Hecate and raised her eyebrows. “Hecate. This isn’t negotiable. We care about you too much to leave you undefended in the middle of the forest when there are dangerous witches roaming around. The magical protections we have in place are not sufficient to keep out directly malicious attacks. Besides, it’s nearly Samhain—I won’t let you be alone on Samhain. And from what Miss Bat has told me, you are doing much better.”

“These dangerous witches—”

“—shall be discussed later. You must ready yourself for Dimity’s arrival. Don’t worry about the food or the books. Just pack your suitcase. Everything else can be transferred later.”

“And Pippa—”

“—has made a full recovery. She will be heading down later to take her horse back to Pentangle’s with a broomstick escort. Now, speed is of the essence. I will see you shortly. Dimity should be over in the next half hour. Answer the door to no one.”

Hecate nodded, and Ada cut the connection. 

Hecate looked around at her room—the pale gold hangings of the four-poster bed, the teal walls, the gold accents—the joyful celebration of colour around her that she had thought garish at first. She now wondered how she was to do without it. Half an hour was no time at all to adjust to losing Westwood Lodge, especially sleep-deprived as she was. Much as she had resisted coming here—and for all she had loathed the idea of returning to the place where Mistress Broomhead had trodden the childish joy out of her—she had grown to see it as home. The castle would seem very different to her now. She felt almost disappointed as she considered her cold, damp quarters in the teachers’ wing at Cackle’s. It was a far cry from the haven Pippa had crafted for her here with her particular eye for interior design.

She slid out the empty suitcase which she had been storing underneath her bed—of which she must start thinking as not being hers any more—and opened it on top of the duvet. Morgana immediately jumped inside and curled her tail around herself.

“Morgana.” Hecate couldn’t help herself from smiling weakly at the sight of her usually dignified familiar being seduced by the safe boundary provided by the walls of her suitcase.

Her fingers brushed against the gold hangings around the bed—the diaphanous lace fine and silken next to her skin—gold, like the undertones of Pippa’s hair—gold, that had surrounded them as Pippa had embraced her after she had cried—

Hecate wondered if she had yet fully realised that there would be a last time that she would hear Pippa sing. She had to think back through the days. Then, that was it—in the bath. Hecate had taken it for granted. She had no reason to hope that Pippa would now ever sing for her again. It would be best for both of them if she did not.

Without moving Morgana—for she doubted Morgana would assent to being thus dethroned—Hecate began to pile clothing into the suitcase. She opened the wardrobe and stripped the garments from their hangers. Morgana’s ears swivelled back and her tail swished in irritation as her space was encroached upon by each additional piece of clothing.

Hecate went about the cottage, collecting the personal effects that had gradually dispersed around as she had trusted herself enough to live and spread herself over the territory that she had formerly feared. She had not many knickknacks of her own; the gifts she had received over the years for Yule and from the few people who knew the date of her birthday mostly consisted of useful items—books, teas, measuring instruments—as most knew her for a person who would value a practical gift. Ada had once given her an ebony quill-stand, which she kept in her office, but she owned nothing that was without some function.

As she gathered her cloak from the coat stand, her hand lingered on the pink scarf. It was not hers to take. Pippa had said that as long as it remained there, she would have to come back for it. 

There was also the matter of the letter, which still sat on the kitchen counter. Hecate knew she could not leave it; Pippa would know that Hecate had found it, knew of its existence, and had chosen not to read its contents. No, it was best that Pippa did not suspect Hecate of searching her pockets. Pippa would tell her in time if she truly intended for this letter to be read, which Hecate was convinced that she did not.

Pippa would be back for Princess, at which time Hecate expected she would pick up her jacket as well. She retrieved the jacket from the sitting room, replaced the letter in the inner pocket, and hung it next to the scarf.

As long as the scarf stayed, there was hope of Pippa returning. Now Hecate was leaving—most likely forever, since it seemed the remainder of her treatment was to take place in the castle—she knew that she would be closing the door on the part of her life that Pippa had shared in.

It was time to say goodbye.

* * *

Hecate barely had time to bid farewell to her once-home before Dimity Drill let herself in with Ada’s spare key and whisked Hecate, Morgana, and their belongings onto her broomstick. Hecate watched the earth fall away beneath her. The departure had been so abrupt, and now her world could be covered up with her palm as she unfurled her hand at her side, where Dimity could not see what she was doing, or the tears that pricked into her eyes.

The paddock was empty, and with a stab in her heart she realised she would not have a chance to say goodbye to Princess. Hecate hoped that she had adequately taken care of her overnight and that Princess had been able to get plenty of rest before Pippa rode her back to Pentangle’s. She wondered if she should have fed her, but Hecate had no idea what quantity of food was appropriate. She wished she had gone down with Pippa in the early mornings when she would attend to Princess—to see Pippa in profile, nose to nose with the white mare, telling her all the good things a magnificent beast like her deserved to hear.

Now, she was soaring over the trees, riding alongside Dimity Drill, who was her escort once again. Hecate had had no physical contact with another person for at least a week—Miss Bat was not the touchy-feely kind with her—and her thigh shrank away from next to Miss Drill’s, particularly as she began to shiver slightly in the cold morning air. 

The castle loomed on the horizon from the crag it sat upon—it seemed more intimidating than it had ever done so before, but at the same time, smaller. Her heart knew so much more existed outside of her experience now. She had spent so much time with Pippa, hearing about her descriptions of Pentangle’s in the autumn—while it was _prettiest_ in the spring, in the autumn you could look out over the surrounding valleys and the lake where the misty grey water was set alight by the fiery red leaves of the trees and hear the songs of the fae on the winds.

The wind whipped around Hecate’s neck, tightening around her throat with anxiety. As they approached, outside the main keep of the castle was a sea of cloaked figures that Hecate thought at first were assailants, but on closer inspection, saw that they were dressed in Cackle’s uniforms. What looked like half, if not most of the school was gathered in the courtyard, holding banners that Hecate could not read from this distance.

Hecate raised her voice over the wind. “Miss Drill, is there an outdoor sports event planned for today?”

“No, Hecate. They’re there for you,” Dimity called back, and they swooped down to touch down on the grass as Hecate’s bafflement grew.

Hecate alighted from the broomstick, Morgana plopping down to join her, and a large cheer erupted from the girls. Ada was at the head of the crowd—beaming like a ray of sunshine in the dismal weather—in her official pointed hat and a pair of fuzzy mittens, leading the applause.

“Welcome home, Miss Hardbroom!” chorused the crowd. Behind her skirt, Morgana gave a little grumble of discontent.

Hecate cast her eyes around at the banners—some emblazoned with the school crest, appropriated for the occasion from the Sports Day supplies—some clearly home-made with large multi-coloured lettering pinned on black bedsheets sewn together. She had not seen this many people in several long weeks, and the effect was dizzying. Perhaps it was lack of sleep, but Hecate felt a disconnect as the word “home” surrounded her from the shouts and well-wishers and banners. Was Cackle’s really her home, after she had known what it was like to live in a—she hesitated to call it a ‘real’ home, since it was just a temporary situation, but—an almost home, with Pippa, cosy and domestic?

Before she had time to think further on this, two first-year girls came up from the crowd to present her with a large bouquet of wildflowers, which she bent down to accept, and held it awkwardly as she realised that the girls were anticipating some kind of speech.

Caught unawares and very underprepared for speaking to such a large crowd, Hecate cleared her throat awkwardly and hoisted the flowers to a more natural angle in the nook of her arm. “Thank you, girls. Your support is— appreciated. Now do not take up any more of your valuable education time and return to your lessons.”

A mixed reaction of sighs and giggles greeted this address. Someone near the back yelled, “That’s the Miss Hardbroom we know and love!” and a hesitant cheer rippled forwards.

Hecate raised a wry eyebrow and her voice above the hubbub. “Just because I am not teaching, don’t think I won’t hesitate to put you in detention.” Yet she could not keep the small smile from her curling the edge of her mouth. She approached Ada, who had been hanging back to let Hecate absorb the welcome, and was met with an embrace and a kiss on the cheek. 

“It’s wonderful to see you back, Hecate,” Ada smiled, her thick grey cardigan visible under her cloak against the chill of the morning.

“Did you arrange all this? It is not quite the quiet entrance I had in mind,” Hecate muttered by her headmistress’s ear.

“Me, want to celebrate the return of my indispensable deputy head?” Ada raised her eyebrows in innocent surprise at Hecate’s accusation. “Of course not. It was all the girls’ idea. The fourth formers wanted to make a cake with your face on it but I forbade it.”

Hecate exhaled a long, tired breath. “You did well. This was— fine.”

“Why don’t you get settled in? We should have tea once you’re ready, before we have our official staff meeting about what we know of our situation,” Ada said, a serious note nagging at the corners of her mouth.

Hecate gathered all the students together and ferried them back indoors. “Back to lessons. Return any banners you have borrowed to the Physical Education supply cupboard, and any banners you may have created back to your dormitories. Griselda Blackwood—Fenella Feverfew—restore your school ties to their _correct_ location on your uniform. We are _witches_, not wanton oiks. I trust you do not need assistance with that task.”

Griselda and Fenella exchanged amused glances as they pulled their ties down from around their heads to lay around their necks. Hecate suspected this was a deliberate attempt to good-naturedly irritate her, and even suspected Miss Drill to have been in on the caper, since she exchanged a wink with Fenella and Griselda. It had worked. She felt a little more in control as she remembered her role—not as Hecate, the invalid exile, waiting for Pippa Pentangle to come home to her on her white horse—but Miss Hardbroom, the stickler for rules and regulations, who demanded respect and obedience from her pupils to help them grow into responsible young members of the witching community.

Yet she was touched by the girls’ attentiveness to her absence. While the school was in no way a family and it would be inappropriate to think of it as one, she was a clearly a role model for many of the girls. It was true that her time away from Cackle’s—as far away as she could get—showed her what other directions her life could have taken, but guiding the future of witchcraft was the nobler pursuit.

She proceeded in through the large oak doors after the tail end of the students, met not with the warmth of the cottage with its central heating, but a chilling draught that was not at all welcoming after becoming accustomed to a certain degree of being able to feel one’s fingers at Westwood Lodge. 

Parting ways with Ada and Miss Drill, Hecate ascended the stairway to the teachers’ wing, up to her chambers. If a month without magic had given her anything, it was a good deal more stamina when climbing stairs. The darkness pressed in around her as she flitted between the glow radiating from the lit sconces in the walls. She had not noticed how utterly lightless it could be in some of the towers. When she reached the top, she followed the corridor to its end to her chambers, and unlocked the door with the key she had not used for some time. 

It was strangely bright within; the direction that the windows faced at this time of day meant that there was a lot of light that she did not usually see on account of her teaching at this time. But Miss Darkside had her class currently—Hecate hoped that they had been behaving, but also that they had not already been taught some of her favourite potions to introduce the girls to.

Almost everything was as she had left it—someone had been in to dust, but it was curious how one could leave somewhere, and return only to find it virtually untouched. Morgana hopped up to the armchair by the empty fireplace, and with her green eyes amidst her nigh-invisible black form in the chair, looked at Hecate expectantly. Unfortunately, without her magic, she would have to light it by hand. Setting down her suitcase, she obligingly crouched and lit the kindling under the pile of wood already in the grate. The things she did for that cat—she planted a quick kiss on her soft head.

There was one thing she noted that was out of place—upon the bureau was a wide, flat black cardboard box and a note. Hecate opened the box, curiously, to find something wrapped in black tissue paper with silver stars printed over it. She unfolded the paper carefully and saw the familiar fabric of the dress she had worn on the night of Mabon.

The note was in Ada’s hand.

_Dear Hecate,_

_Here is your dress, repaired. Consider it an early birthday present. We had to send it off to a magical tailor to fix it as the fabric is so intricate. Looking forward to seeing you around again. We have missed you dearly._

Hecate lingered on those last few words for a moment. She had been so intently focused on Pippa that she had neglected to consider how her presence would have been missed at Cackle’s. Now that she saw first-hand how much she meant to Cackle’s, to both students and staff, it was Pippa to whom she felt insignificant now. It had been so easy for Pippa to leave without a word and arrange for her replacement.

Ada’s note also reminded her that she was invited to tea with her before the meeting in the lunch hour. She continued the small amount of unpacking that she had to do, wishing she had had time for a nap.

* * *

Hecate had been so used to Morgana following her almost everywhere that she was a little surprised that she remained nestled in the chair before the fire when Hecate was about to leave. The cat’s eyes slit open just enough to acknowledge her leaving before pinching shut in bliss. Perhaps Morgana had the right idea; if Hecate were a cat, she would certainly not leave the only warm spot in the chambers once she had found it.

Ada’s office door was ajar when she arrived at it; she knocked and entered when she heard Ada’s permission.

“Hecate—I thought you would be down soon. I’ve just started brewing the tea,” Ada said with a smile. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes, Ada,” Hecate responded. “I must thank you for getting my dress repaired.”

“Oh, that’s nothing. I know it’s your favourite, and it’s so pretty.”

‘Pretty’ was not exactly the word Hecate would use to describe it, but it was her favourite. That was why she had chosen to wear it on Mabon night, since she knew that Pippa Pentangle would be there to see her in it, and she wanted to look at least _presentable_. She possibly would not have worn it had she known she was going to be impaled by a monstrous plant awakened by dark magic.

“Did you have—I hesitate to say it—an enjoyable rest at Westwood Lodge?” Ada asked.

Hecate nodded. “It surprised me how well I seemed to get along there, thanks to your alterations. It hardly felt like it used to.”

Ada let out a sigh of relief. “I’m so pleased. Miss Pentangle did all the hard work, making everything look so homely.”

At the invocation of Miss Pentangle’s name, Hecate saw her opportunity to ask after her without sounding as though she were desperate for news. “About Miss Pentangle—there was no problem curing her wounds? Will she be at the meeting?” Hecate felt her breathing quicken as she spoke, and realised she could have made a more convincing attempt at disguising her emotions.

Ada shook her head as she poured the tea into cups for Hecate and herself. “I’m afraid Miss Pentangle has left already. She is fully recovered, though—we had all the potions and the salve we needed already made.”

“She has gone?” Hecate’s voice faltered.

“Not long after your welcoming committee set up. She didn’t want to draw attention to herself,” Ada replied, helping herself to a biscuit from a tin and offering one to Hecate, who politely refused. “We thought it best that the girls did not know of the attack.”

Hecate strained to keep her breathing steady. “Of course. Who went with her?”

“Two security witches that the Magic Council sent,” Ada said, sounding wary. “They should be returning after safely ensuring the delivery of Miss Pentangle to her school, to search the forests—for all the good it will do.”

“Ada? What do you mean?”

“I’m not convinced that they will be successful. These witches must know that we intend to look for them after Miss Pentangle’s escape, so they may well have retreated to a concealed location.”

Hecate sipped her tea. It was unfortunately not helping her tiredness, but it was at the very least hot and comforting.

* * *

By the time the rest of the staff assembled for the meeting, Hecate was wilting with tiredness. She had almost asked Ada for a Wide-Awake potion before considering that this might interfere with her magic—and it would have meant admitting that she had not slept all night over a certain wounded horse rider.

Miss Darkside, a formidable witch in a black gown, took her place beside Hecate—she was shorter than Hecate, but no less daunting with her piercing, fearsome eyes. She struck the figure of the unrelenting, authoritative teacher that Hecate had hoped she would, and her knowledge of potions was admirable in the articles she had published in the _Cauldron Review_ that Hecate had read to familiarise herself with the work of Miss Vivian Darkside. Meeting her in person now, after hearing of her exploits from the Witch Academy Network, was nothing short of pure rapture; even though she was exhausted, she felt much more awake after Miss Darkside met her eyes and nodded a greeting.

“Miss Hardbroom. I trust you have had a— restful break? Are you ready to take back responsibility of your class? Never have I seen such a bunch of contumacious, _delinquent_ young ladies in all my years teaching as a supply witch.”

Something about the way that Miss Darkside had hesitated and the choice of her word ‘break’ gave Hecate the uncomfortable feeling of being ridiculed, as well as the insult to her girls—who, Hecate agreed, could be wilful, but _delinquent_? Her girls were a reflection of her teaching standards, so to have her reputation sullied in the cauldron ashes like that was nothing short of a major slight upon herself, but one that she found herself second-guessing. Perhaps she had become more sensitive to criticism during her illness, and the time spent pretending at being Pippa Pentangle’s stay-at-home-witch wife had been her undoing.

Not wishing to convey any air of weakness in front of the woman she idolised, Hecate shot back, “I trust the girls have not given you more trouble than you can handle? I am more than eager to take back my teaching post at such a time when my magic has returned to its full power.”

Miss Drill fought back a smirk. 

“I assure you, Miss Hardbroom, that any grievances that they have given me were instantly reprimanded with the appropriate level of discipline. Let me assure you that under my care, they have achieved a level of witchcraft that they could never have hoped to reach on the current curriculum.”

Hecate bristled and was about to make a scathing retort—when Miss Bat arrived, looking like she had possibly forgotten the time and place of the meeting. Ada welcomed them all—Hecate silently grateful that she was spared the onus of coming up with an appropriately veiled slight upon Miss Darkside’s methodology in her academic work—and the meeting began. “It is without question that Miss Pentangle was attacked by a witch—most likely more than one—from a rebel coven.” Her usually cheerful voice was grave.

“What evidence have you for this?” Miss Darkside interrupted.

“I trust Miss Pentangle’s first-hand account, and also the report that Miss Hardbroom delivered to me last night. I personally conducted an inspection of the wounds Miss Pentangle sustained, and they are consistent with spells we have seen used by unaligned covens who have turned away from good magic.”

Miss Darkside gave a head-tilt in begrudging acceptance of Miss Cackle’s postulations.

Ada continued, unruffled by Miss Darkside’s intrusion. “In light of this, I think we had better hold Hallowe’en in the Great Hall this year. It’s too dangerous to protect all of the students outside. Better to have it in the castle in where we are shielded by the magic here.”

Traditionally, Cackle’s used the old castle ruins a short walk away for their Hallowe’en celebration, where they would light ceremonial fires and assemble altars. Amidst the dilapidated remains of the Saxon fort, overtaken by nature, they would chant cleansing rituals for the old year as firelight danced over the stones of ancient broken doorways that led to nowhere at the top of crumbling walls, silhouetted high against the starry sky. That was the very essence of Hallowe’en for Hecate; sparks and witches’ voices rising into the night air as they remembered their departed loved ones. It had provided Hecate with solace for many years without change; as a girl she had stood in the ruins, in times that were filled with keener grief.

“Can’t we extend the existing protections to include the ruins?” Miss Bat asked.

“They are tied to the Founding Stone of the school. It’s possible to separately protect the ruins, but if what I suspect is the case, the attackers may be waiting for such a time as Hallowe’en when the castle is empty.”

Hecate was loath to admit it, but Ada’s precaution was wise. She hardly wanted to break from tradition, yet keeping the students and Cackle’s itself safe from any would-be malefactors was paramount. 

“And given the change of scenery, we could also have a change of activity. Why don’t we have a themed ball this year instead?” Ada proposed, “It would bring a little levity to this dark situation we find ourselves in.”

“That seems rather… frivolous,” remarked Hecate, for whom the word ‘change’ brought very little delight, “given the solemnity with which we witches ought to conduct ourselves at this, our most sacrosanct time of year.”

“Miss Hardbroom makes an excellent point,” Miss Darkside’s quick tongue cut in again.

“You are not wrong, Hecate,” said Ada. “Yet I think the excitement of doing something—shall we say, _different_—at Hallowe’en will provide the distraction for the girls that we need to keep them from the danger on our front doorstep.”

“Do you really think it wise to hide this from the students?” Miss Darkside spoke up, bony knuckles white on her tea cup. “Some show an alarming lack of respect for school rules—what if one were to wander off right into the arms of this rebel coven?”

“Mass hysteria will do no good either,” Ada responded, raising her eyebrows at Miss Darkside. “I know my girls, Vivian. News of something like this—especially when a powerful witch like Miss Pentangle was wounded—are bound to cause panic rather than prudence.”

“Moreover,” Hecate added, “If even one of them catches wind of a danger in the forest that the we have not yet solved, _someone_ is bound to try to play the hero in a reckless act of self-sacrifice.”

“Reckless act of self-sacrifice? Sound familiar, Hecate?” Dimity chuckled.

“Miss Drill,” Hecate whispered in a voice that chilled the air of the room. “May I remind you that a student under my care was in a life-threatening situation. This is a completely different set of hypothetical circumstances.”

“So-_rry_,” Miss Drill rolled her eyes. “Gotcha, lightening the mood _not_ part of my job description today.”

Hecate narrowed her eyes at Dimity. She did not want to be shown up in front of Miss Darkside, who already seemed to think her inadequate. She already felt like the prodigal witch returning to her coven after a holiday, and as though she had left her colleagues to take care of her mess. She started to feel the burden she had been upon everyone as her head began to ache heavily with her lack of sleep. 

While Hecate was feeling barely half-present, they came to an agreement. The Hallowe’en celebration would take the form of the ball. Miss Bat had mentioned inviting another school, but it was universally thought to be an ill-advised idea on the basis of logistically transporting an extra hundred—or more—staff and students up the mountain to Cackle’s without alerting whomever it was in the forest. Even it it were just one individual, it was not worth the risk that that person was not working alone.

Since the school rules already forbade the students from being allowed out unsupervised, they also determined that a reminder of this rule was to be issued in the next morning’s assembly along with the announcement of the Hallowe’en Ball. 

When Ada dismissed them, Hecate took a little longer than the others to extricate herself from her chair. The rest of the staff were heading down for some lunch.

“Everything all right, Hecate?” Ada blinked at her. It was not like Hecate to linger after a meeting, since usually she had every minute of her lunch hour scheduled.

“Fine, thank you, Ada,” Hecate said, feeling the sudden urge to yawn and fighting it down.

Ada smiled at her. “It must have been as long a night for you as it was for I. If you need some rest, I am sure no one begrudge you leaving now. I can send some sandwiches to your chambers if you like?”

Hecate nodded her assent. “Thank you, Ada. That would be appreciated.”

* * *

A few days had passed since Hecate had returned to the castle. Sleeping in her old bed had been an adjustment; the mattress had very little give in it, so was not as supportive as her bed in Westwood Lodge had been. A few stiff-necked mornings later and she told herself she was almost used to it again.

The routine at Cackle’s was so different to that she had developed at Westwood Lodge before Pippa had left. The constant presence of staff and children alike had made her irritable as she navigated the castle, neither to learn nor to instruct—she felt like someone’s widowed aunt floating about, surplus to requirement, morose and powerless. Miss Darkside had assumed her position fully, and Hecate was beginning to feel that her presence at Cackle’s was not wanted.

Ada had sensed Hecate’s concern over being at a loose end, and persisted in inviting her for tea with her. At Westwood Hecate was able to avoid social interaction by refusing visitors in lieu of wallowing over Pippa leaving—while assuring herself that she was doing nothing of the sort—but within the castle, Ada could make it her business to elbow her way past Hecate’s obstinacy. Following a discussion with Miss Darkside and Hecate, Ada had encouraged Hecate to resume her duties as form mistress of the First Form, as well as monitoring detentions—a purposefulness that it was obvious that Hecate craved, but hadn’t the confidence to ask for.

Ada’s intuition paid off. It was with great pride that Hecate took her place at the front of the classroom, early, before the girls had finished their breakfast. She set out her favourite quill with eagerness, and trailed her hands over the carved back of her chair; she hadn’t even thought once about Pippa Pentangle.

The girls were all glumly shuffling as they entered, bags slung over their shoulders, but as they spotted that the teacher stood at the head of their class was not Miss Darkside, as they had been used to seeing her every day for the past few weeks, they started chattering excitedly.

“Miss Hardbroom! You’re back!”

“Girls,” Hecate silenced them with a warning voice. The girls’ animated faces fell still. “I am indeed taking on some additional responsibilities at what we all hope will be the final phase of my recovery. During this time, spellcasting is forbidden in my classroom for your own safety as well as mine. Failure to adhere to this rule will land you in detention with me every night for a week.”

She pierced them all with a glare. They all seemed to be in understanding. Hecate ran her hand over her class register that the register monitor had brought in. It was strange, but the feel of it in her possession filled her with a sense of conviction that she had been lacking while at Westwood Lodge. She smoothed it open to that month and surveyed her class’s attendance, that stood out by its notation in a different pen to her own.

Hecate began to take the register. She knew the rhythm of their names all too well, and it almost felt as though no time had passed, were it not for the fact that the class was alert with excitement over her presence.

“Ethel Hallow.”

No response came from the class as Ethel’s name hung over them for a moment.

“Ethel Hallow?” Hecate looked up, and surely enough, Ethel’s usual desk at the front was empty. “Has anyone seen Ethel this morning?”

The girls all looked blank. 

“She wasn’t at breakfast,” said Felicity.

“I think I saw her before then,” Drusilla Paddock said, her mouth twisting in remembrance. “Oh yeah, she said she was going out for a walk.”

“Are you quite sure, Drusilla?” Hecate asked quietly, not wishing to betray the panic she felt inside. “She ought to be back by now. I will have to mark her in as late.”

A muttering came from the girls, yet it seemed to be centred over the fact that Ethel had never received a late mark before in the register. Hecate was relieved that the girls were focused on Ethel’s abnormal behaviour and did not pick up on her concern over Ethel’s safety.

“Quiet down, girls.” And Hecate resumed the register, starting with Mildred Hubble.

As she reached Enid Nightshade’s name, the door of the classroom opened, and in rushed Ethel, clutching a bulging bag of books, her normally neat ponytail a little off-centre, and her face was unusually wan.

“I’m so sorry I’m late, Miss Hardbroom,” she breathed heavily. “I—”

“Explanations later, Ethel,” Hecate interrupted her. “You were not here when I called your name, so I have marked you in as late.”

Ethel looked as though she were about to cry. The girl looked exhausted. Whatever had made her late was certainly something serious to cause her such an excess of emotion.

Snapping the register shut once registration was complete, Hecate was surprised to see Mildred Hubble’s hand in the air. 

“Mildred?”

“Miss Hardbroom, are you coming back to teach us again?” 

“I will not be taking over your potions class for a little while, but you may be pleased to know that our form has the responsibility of decorating the Great Hall for the Hallowe’en Ball.”

This was met with some excitement. The girls barely held back exchanging whispered comments to each other, such as they never would have done before Hecate’s illness. Had Miss Darkside allowed them to behave in such a manner—or did they now see Hecate as someone who would be soft enough to excuse this, compared to the indomitable Miss Darkside?

“On the day of Hallowe’en, you will excused from your normally scheduled lessons to help create an atmosphere of frivolity,” Hecate continued in a strained voice. “The rest of the school will be told about the Hallowe’en Ball in tomorrow’s assembly. Please try to keep this news to yourselves.”

Immediately, hands shot up and Hecate was assaulted by cries of “Miss Hardbroom!” She held up a finger for silence.

“Before you ask, the dress code will be your formal school robes and black hats. Hair is to be worn down.”

Several girls put their hands down in disappointment, tutting and sighing. She pointed towards Mildred, who still had her hand up.

Mildred took the end of her plait out of her mouth, to ask, “Are we allowed to play tricks?”

Hecate stared at her, speechless in utter indignation. “No.”

The bell rang for the first lesson, saving Hecate from the responsibility of answering any more inane questions. The girls waited in anticipation until they could leave, looking impatient to be off; they knew from experience that they were not allowed to move until Miss Hardbroom had officially released them, lest they receive a smarting word from her.

“Any further information will be conveyed to you tomorrow in the morning assembly. You are dismissed.”

As the sound of the chairs being pushed out screeched about the room, Hecate added discreetly, “Ethel, please stay behind for a moment.”

Ethel looked guiltily at the floor as the last of the girls filed out for their morning P.E. lesson. “I’m sorry I was late, Miss Hardbroom. I— lost track of time.”

Hecate took out a blank behaviour report sheet from her disciplinary folder and began to make notes. _Reason for lateness: ‘Lost track of time.’_ “And what were you doing while you were losing track of time?”

“I was— in the library, Miss Hardbroom,” Ethel said, sounding shameful as she realised that her teacher was writing a report on her.

“You were not, as Drusilla Paddock seems to believe, out for a walk?”

“No, Miss Hardbroom. I didn’t want anyone to know that I’ve had to study extra hours to complete all my homework.”

“And can anyone confirm that you were in the library?” Hecate paused in her note-taking.

“Yes,” Ethel said. “Miss Nightscribe found me there after she came in from breakfast.”

Hecate raised an eyebrow. “So you did not have breakfast this morning?”

Ethel shook her head. “No, Miss Hardbroom.”

Hecate put down her quill, and rose to her full height. Ethel shrank back in fear. However, Hecate crossed the room to a store cupboard and withdrew a cylindrical red tin. “Skipping meals is not wise for a girl your age, and particularly not when you have a vigorous physical education lesson with Miss Drill in your first period.”

She opened the tin to reveal some very ordinary-looking custard creams, and held it before the girl. “These are biscuits enhanced with a potion to make each one a nutritionally balanced meal.”

Ethel looked scandalised. “We’re not allowed to eat in the classroom.”

Hecate narrowed her eyes impatiently. “This is clearly an exception, Ethel. I’m giving you an order. Take one.”

Ethel reached in and took one, and nibbled it, her wide eyes flicking back and forth as though expecting a teacher to walk in and expel her on the spot.

“Now, please enlighten me as to what emergency took you to the library this morning instead of joining your classmates for breakfast.”

“Miss Darkside’s been working us so hard,” Ethel explained. “I’ve been trying to produce work to the standards she expects but— it’s no use, she’s too harsh a marker. And some of the magic she’s got us learning is really hard, not something we should be trying before we’ve mastered the basics. Of course, I’m more than capable of that level, but some of the others are really struggling. And none of us has got over a B for a single essay and I’m worried about how it’s going to look on my report card for parents’ evening in a few weeks.”

Hecate let out a small sigh. She could imagine Miss Darkside being particularly draconic as a teacher, especially given her comments the other day about her students being _contumacious_ and _delinquent_. But far be it from Hecate to believe the word of a student over that of a respectable colleague, she decided that she would assess the situation herself to determine where the root of the problem lay. She suspected the issue to be partly on both sides, though the effect that the workload was having on Ethel, and she imagined, other students, was troubling.

“I will review the amount and nature of the homework that Miss Darkside has been setting you. However, when you next run into difficulties with your work, you may see me in my office rather than wasting hours in the library searching for answers when you are not sure where to begin looking for them.”

“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom,” Ethel said gratefully. 

Hecate scribbled a quick note to Miss Drill to excuse Ethel’s lateness for P.E. as being her fault, and as she sent Ethel off on her way, pondered how she would handle Miss Darkside.

* * *

Hallowe’en morning arrived, and with it, an ice-cold weather front; when Hecate awoke in her chambers from a fitful sleep—still not quite used to the smaller size and inferior comfort of her mattress—a blustery wind came in through the slit in the stone wall and played about the back of her neck in the least inviting manner possible. 

Hecate was tempted to nestle deeper into her duvet, especially as Morgana was resting her soft body against her head, but hiding from the cold would not make it any warmer. It was then that she reconsidered her position on glass in the castle windows. While there was certainly something _bracing_ about picking one’s way across the stone floor barefoot—the soft carpets, central heating, and blessed _windows_ of Westwood Lodge had spoilt her and she yearned not to have frozen feet. It was her fault for leaving her slippers on the other side of her bedroom. 

Morgana, awoken by Hecate’s departure from the bed, uncoiled from her loop on the pillow, and yowled hungrily.

“All right, all right,” Hecate said, stepping into her slippers and going to fill Morgana’s bowl with a pouch of wet food.

* * *

The First Formers were in high spirits that morning at registration, and it took several threatening glares, and a warning that any girl who did not follow orders would find herself in the laundry room all day without magic, to quieten them down into a reasonable level of excitement.

They filed into the Great Hall, where the tables from breakfast had already been pushed against the walls. Rays of light filtered in across the hall, fading and brightening as the sun was obscured by clouds and shone through the windows. Pale clouds caught the sun’s golden glow as they scudded in front of a dark cumulonimbus, almost blue with heavy rain—they moved in layers, some soft, pillowy grey against shadowy black, and others faint strings high up, languishing idly where the wind dared not disturb them.

Miss Bat, who would have taken the girls’ Chanting lesson, joined them, announcing her presence with a zealous stanza from a Hallowe’en musical she had written for the school a few years back. Hecate held her tongue.

Some of the girls dedicated themselves to making streamers from white, orange, purple, and black coloured paper. They set up an arts and crafts station on one of the dining tables, after Hecate instructed Miss Bat to put a protective charm over the table to prevent glue, glitter, and felt tip pen marks from getting everywhere.

Felicity Foxglove had dug out one of the older cauldrons that was less suitable for holding reactive potions and suggested they could use it as a punch bowl. Hecate had conceded to a punch bowl’s existence reluctantly, on account of the inventive Ever-Effervescent spell that Felicity had proposed to cast on it to make it bubble.

“My, my, Hecate, isn’t this going to be _fun_?” Gwendolyn said gleefully as they overlooked the proceedings.

“_Fun_ is not quite the word I would use to describe this deplorable break from tradition,” Hecate replied, arching an eyebrow as Mildred Hubble delightfully opened a paper chain, expecting to draw out a line of ghosts holding hands, only for her expression to fall as she realised she had accidentally made an incorrect incision and they all separated and slipped out onto the table.

“Come now, Hecate. They’re expressing their _creativity_!” Hecate sniffed as Maud Spellbody helped Mildred to make a poster with her dismembered ghost family, gluing them onto a piece of purple sugar paper while Mildred came up with a lamentably poor slogan.

Mildred’s voice carried over to where they were standing. “It can go over the drinks table. ‘Spirits will be _severed_’! Get it? Like ‘spirits will be served’. But spookier! And it explains why the ghosts are all cut apart.”

“There’s not really going to be any alcohol though, is there?” Maud replied, sounding worried.

“‘Course not. We’re eleven years old. But I don’t know, maybe witches let their children drink alcohol?”

Hecate strode over to where Mildred and Maud were having their discussion. “We most _certainly_ do not,” she said in an ominous tone as the pair of them jumped in surprise.

* * *

Since the hall was off-limits due to the decoration proceedings, the girls were allowed a sandwich lunch in their dormitories instead of their usual school dinners. 

The First Form returned eagerly after lunch to continue with the making and putting up of decorations. Miss Darkside was in attendance, since it was her Potions lesson they were missing, and she stalked up and down the hall, nostrils flaring with the contained fury of a dragon whenever someone so much as breathed without her authority. She had them line up to present their efforts for approval—Hecate was horrified to see her levitating several of the slightly more silly designs into the bin. Hecate watched the girls closely to see how they reacted to Miss Darkside, making a mental note to report this to Ada when she had a chance to look over the type work she was setting the girls as well, following Ethel’s complaint.

Hecate was utterly relieved when Dimity came to depose Vivian; as soon as Miss Darkside was out of the door and the girls were allowed a lavatory break, Hecate marched over to the bin and drew out the crumpled poster of Mildred’s dismembered ghost family that she had been working at all day with glitter and metallic pens, among other items of which she personally saw no value, but knew had importance to the girls who had spent their day perfecting them. Miss Bat was correct—the girls were expressing their creativity, and much as Hecate did not care for such an activity, the freedom to do so was sacred. Hecate was all too familiar with only being sanctioned to express aspects of herself that met with the approval of a cruel taskmaster. _Besides, it goes against the ‘spirit’ of the occasion_, Hecate thought, pursing her lips as she reused Mildred’s horrendous pun.

Dimity wheeled in a trolley laden with pumpkins and assorted gourds for the girls to carve, to their delight. Soon the air was filled with the distinctive smell of pumpkin, as the girls, aproned up, hollowed out and prepared their pumpkins. Hecate and Dimity both watched carefully as the girls took up their knives. Some of them showed real artistry in their attempts, Hecate noted, particularly in the case of Mildred’s pumpkin, which bore a cat sleeping on a book. She assumed this was inspired from reality, since Mildred often neglected to do her reading homework. If a cat were to be sleeping on one’s book—well, one could hardly be expected to disturb one’s cat from their important rest.

The only pupil seeming to be not enjoying herself was Ethel Hallow, who was complaining that she did not see the academic relevance of getting her hands sticky with pumpkin guts or carving a silly design into a gourd.

“Ethel, would you prefer to assist me with the fairy lights?” Hecate offered gently. “You are tall enough to be able to reach.”

“You don’t need to be tall enough if you just do it with magic,” Ethel retorted.

Hecate blanched. A slap to the face would have been less painful. Ethel’s expression dropped as she noted her teacher’s reaction.

“I— do not have that luxury at the moment, Ethel,” Hecate said, her voice thick with bitterness.

“I’m— I’m sorry, Miss Hardbroom,” Ethel apologised quickly. “I didn’t think.”

Hecate could do nothing more than shake her head before turning away to prevent the girl from seeing the tears welling up in her eyes. She knew Ethel’s frustration came from her own anguish over Miss Darkside. Ethel of course could not know how much her words hurt—nor the grief that Hecate had been carrying around with her all day, under the surface.

* * *

Towards the end of the day, after the girls had been dismissed to change into their formal robes, Hecate also disappeared upstairs to ready herself for the ball. She hadn’t much that she would consider suitable for a ball, were this an adult occasion among friends, but since she was a teacher surveilling her students’ behaviour, and considering it was Samhain, something plainer would do.

The robe was entirely black with a high collar, had shining black beading tracing the vertical pleats, and was angular about the shoulders while fitted in the cuffs. Her finger brushed over the beads as she smoothed it over her body. She would look appropriate for the occasion. How she looked ultimately had no bearing on how she, or how the girls, would remember that night.

She began to take her hair down, and wondered what Pippa would be doing for her school’s Hallowe’en celebrations. It would probably be something far more glamorous than that which Cackle’s could manage. Hecate imagined fewer homemade decorations and more fairy lights, and most likely, all dressed in Ordinary-style Hallowe’en costumes—perhaps Pippa herself in the garb of a so-called fairytale good witch, or benevolent fairy godmother, distributing sweets to her adoring students. Hecate, lost in thought, needlessly passed a comb through her hair, which could not be tangled on account of the Hairpin of Straightness concealed under her hat.

Once she was ready, Hecate swooped back downstairs to continue the preparations. Outside, through the arrow-slit windows along the walls of the spiral staircase, the sunset was already beginning; iron grey clouds shot through with streaks of pink stretched out across the gradient of the sky.

Dimity was arranging the finished pumpkins that the girls had carved as Hecate approached her—one of them suspiciously looked like it was meant to be a likeness of Hecate herself, with two bulbous eyes, a pointed nose, and a thin, severe mouth. Hecate seized it from its suspiciously prominent position and put in the back corner so it would not attract too much attention.

“Dimity, could you possibly hand me that box of matches?” Hecate asked, before noting with alarm Miss Drill making as if to convey it by other means to her.

“Catch, HB,” Dimity said, throwing it in a gentle arc.

Startled, Hecate threw her hands out too late, and the matchbox plummeted towards the ground. Hecate waited for the sound of it hitting the floor, but it was hovering a foot from the polished wood surface as her hands locked towards it.

“Hecate, did you just—?”

Hecate saw that she had instinctively cast a hover spell to stop the matchbox in mid-air. She let out an “—oh!” of surprise before her hold on her magic faltered as she realised she had used her magic, and the matchbox clattered to the floor.

“Your magic!” Miss Drill exclaimed in the empty hall.

Hecate was stunned. Her magic—had been healed? Somehow she had been able to access her connection to the arcane without a conscious thought to. It was possible that she had been holding back the sputtering stream of her magic for so long—and that now it could flow freely, the tide of it welled up in her. The magic lay just beneath the surface and she barely had to dip for it to spark into her hand.

She was torn between caution and exhilaration. This was all she had dreamt of for weeks, and yet—

“I think I had better see Miss Cackle to see if my magic is safe to use yet.”

Dimity shook her head in disbelief. “Forget that—see if you can transfer! Wouldn’t you just love to disappear and reappear in that spooky way you always love to do?”

The temptation was too strong. Hecate caressed the air with her fingers, and the energy coursed through her as she dematerialised. Her sense of herself drifted for a moment—expanded beyond the experience of banal corporeality that had been her prison for weeks—before she re-formed right behind Dimity’s shoulder.

“Don’t you think that would be a little—reckless?” Hecate whispered, her senses flooding with adrenaline as she savoured the headrush of the transference spell. The control she had was electrifying; she could taste the precision—the potentiality of herself—the way her magic brought her to life.

Miss Drill span around to face Hecate and gulped. “S—sorry?”

“Do not ever attempt to embarrass me again in front of Vivian Darkside. You know I hold her in high regard,” Hecate said sharply, drawing up to her full height. “But I had better see Miss Cackle all the same. Tell no one of this.”

Miss Drill nodded weakly, eyes wide. 

Hecate restrained herself from transferring directly to Ada’s office. It was all very well freezing a tiny object in mid-air or transferring ten paces, but a larger spell could be volatile, and she could not forgive herself if anything were to happen to any bystanders.

The walk there seemed to take longer than it had ever done. Hecate felt her footsteps ring out as she walked, echoing louder somehow. It was as if her magic had attuned all her senses to be particularly responsive—the sound pressed in on her ears and distant voices in the halls seemed as though they were far closer than they should have been.

Did she _want_ her magic to be restored? The question was folly, because of course she did. It was all she wanted. But—her magic being healed meant more than simply being able to wave her hand and make pretty colours spiral through the air. She had felt comfortable coming back to her role at Cackle’s mere days ago, but the pressure and _expectation_ upon her to be extraordinary was a weighty one indeed. Would her colleagues still care for her, look out for her, as they had done when she was ill? Would they make the same allowances when she faltered? Did she _prefer_ the non-magical existence where she was not held to any standard—where she was free to be vulnerable?

She clutched the watch around her neck. Of course not. Even though magic had not been responsible for her most precious memories, it was magic that had sustained her and given her purpose.

Hecate was brought back to earth as she reached the Headmistress’s office door. She knocked—still apprehensive—but feeling firmer in her resolve.

“Come in,” came Ada’s voice. Hecate entered, and upon looking around the empty lower floor, deduced that Ada must be upstairs in the mezzanine of her office. She ascended the stairs, to find Ada, one hand on her hip, deep in thought by her wardrobe.

“Hecate, what a pleasant surprise. You look very striking, as always. I was just about to change for the ball too. Which do you think?”

Two sets of formal black robes hung against the wardrobe, which contained all of Ada’s ceremonial gowns, academic hoods, hats, and—as Hecate knew well—a few spare granny square blankets and warm cardigans for when the school became particularly chilly in the winter. Ada’s office had one of the larger windows in the castle, and when one was sitting there for an extended period of time, the cold could really get into one’s toes.

“Ada—there is something very important that I must speak to you about.”

Ada’s smile gave way to a frown. “Hecate, what’s wrong?”

Hecate took a deep breath and exhaled. It would not be wise to delay any further, even though there was still something gnawing at her—an anxiety that somehow she was doing something _wrong_, that somehow she was not meant to have the power she once had.

“My magic—it appears to have been restored.”

Ada’s eyes filled with tears of pure delight; she approached and laid her hand on Hecate’s arm. “Oh, Hecate—”

Hecate reserved her joyfulness, remaining stiff under Ada’s touch. “Ada, can you perform a Sight spell? I must know for certain that I am completely safe before I am permitted to perform any magic near the students.”

“Of course, of course.” Ada blinked back her tears, pushed her glasses up onto her head, and performed the gesture to activate the Sight spell. When her eyes opened, they shone brilliant blue. Hecate was reminded of when Pippa’s eyes would be illuminated with the same eerie light, and she had to lower her gaze.

“Well—” Ada said, her voice trembling with emotion, “—I may not be as accomplished a healing witch as Miss Pentangle, but I think— I think you are back to your normal self. I don’t see any evidence of the anomalies from Pippa’s notes. Hecate—” Ada shook her head and the spell dissipated, and she flung her arms around her. 

Hecate tensed against the embrace, unsure whether what she was feeling at this news was anxiety or excitement. Ada knew now, and could know un-know.

“Aren’t you happy?” Ada asked, shrewdly as ever, sensing Hecate’s nervousness.

“There is a part of me that worries—” Hecate started, but broke off. “Yet I do not wish to be unprofessional.”

“Please, Hecate, how long have we known each other? Be unprofessional,” Ada smiled, but concern still lined her brow.

Hecate swallowed. “I know that everyone expects me to be an impenetrable force, but what losing control of my magic—learning how to rely on others—has taught me is that I do not always have to be strong. Yet, being strong is—part of me. I do not wish to give that part of myself up, but—”

Ada squeezed Hecate’s hand. “There isn’t just one way to be strong, Hecate.”

Hecate looked down at Ada’s wrinkled hands closed over her own. “But I— I don’t know how else to not appear weak.” 

Her eyes flicked up to Ada’s—she meant to look away, but was captured by the empathy in them. Ada said gently, “Do you think _I_ am weak, Hecate?”

“Certainly not.” Hecate drew her hand out from between Ada’s. “But no one thinks of you and expects you to be a strict disciplinarian who needs none but herself, either, as they do I. And since Vivian Darkside is so impervious to fault, I fear I will be a disappointment when it comes for me to resume my post.”

“Sometimes letting down your defences takes more strength than thinking you can do everything yourself. Being strong isn’t about being thick-skinned.” Ada took her glasses from her head and began to polish them on her cardigan. “If it makes you feel any better, in my view at least, Miss Darkside isn’t half the teacher—or witch—you are. What makes you different from Vivian is that you _do_ show your heart from time to time, and when you do, it is beautiful.”

Hecate privately disagreed. There were plenty of times she had been needlessly disparaging, just like Miss Darkside—when she had felt more like Mistress Broomhead than she was comfortable with now. Ada had not seen her at her worst, but the headmistress’s trust in her was warming. As for her heart, she could never show it fully to anyone else—not after the way she almost systematically managed to hurt others every time she had attempted to be less closed off.

“You don’t have to launch yourself back into teaching if you feel you need more time to adjust. I’d already drawn up a phased return for you when you the time came, so we can be flexible and not overwork you. Just because your magic may have returned, it does not mean that you are mentally ready to take on all of your former responsibilities at once without an adjustment period.”

“I would like to keep my news private for now, if I may. The Hallowe’en ball may not be the appropriate time to reveal that my magic has returned—there will be excitement enough, and I do not wish to take centre stage.”

“Understood, Hecate.” Ada nodded and smiled, and Hecate was reminded of how grateful she was that she had such a considerate and compassionate headmistress in Ada.

“Thank you. And— the left one,” Hecate commented, after analysing the two black robes. “You do not want something quite as long when there will be teenage girls hyped on sugar dancing about.”

* * *

Hecate stood stiffly by the door as the girls were finally allowed in—their eyes boggled as they absorbed the alteration to the normally majestic Great Hall. The First Formers chattered excitedly as they pointed out their crafts to the older students, who in turn responded with ideas of their own and wondered which form would have the opportunity to decorate next year. _Hopefully, none of you, if I have my way_, thought Hecate. She was eager for them to resume the Cackle tradition next year, when hopefully the school would not be under threat from a mysterious adversary—although she suspected that she ought not to hold her breath.

Miss Cackle had elevated the tone of the slightly pathetic strings of fairy lights by enchanting a large spool of ribbon with a Starbright charm and encircling the hall with glistening gems of light. They glowed warmly, and with the main chandeliers dimmed to fit with the spooky aesthetic, it looked rather entrancing.

All manner of snacks and treats were laid out on the tables over the black lace spiderweb tablecloths: toffee apples with hard shiny golden crusts of caramel, gingerbread spellbooks sandwiched with maple cream, peppermint cream eyeballs, miniature tarts made with black pastry to resemble cauldrons, meringue ghosts—it created _an_ atmosphere, to be certain, but not one that Hecate felt representative of Cackle’s. 

Miss Drill was acting as the DJ—if one considered jabbing one’s finger over at a record player on the other side of the room while secreting twisted ‘ribcage’ cheese breads from the snack tables into one’s robe pocket DJing.

As Hecate watched the girls—confiscating a pair of dangling skeleton earrings from a Third Form student—the knowledge of her magic returning burned inside her like a beacon. It would not be right tonight, to distract from the main event of Samhain and divert the girls’ attention further than it was already by the triviality of the ball. Yet her fingers itched to do some kind of magic.

The shyer girls edged around the snacks tables, while some of the rowdier Fifth Formers from the witch ball team, eager to let loose, started dancing as a popular song began blaring across the hall. Hecate bristled and kept a keen vigil over the cauldron punch bowl as it bubbled in case anyone dared interfere with its contents. Occasionally her eyes flicked to the curtain that led to the High Hall to see if anyone was was observing Samhain, rather than Hallowe’en as the Ordinaries celebrated it.

Hecate had enforced that there had to be a dedicated space for traditional Samhain, as it was “a time for _solemn reflection and gratitude for our magical gifts_ rather than an opportunity for bedlam and disregard for our witching ancestors by gorging oneself on sweets and chocolate and wanton hysteria”. Ada, who was relieved to have her Deputy Headmistress back in the castle, had allowed her whatever she asked for. Thus, an altar had been set up in the High Hall for the placing of pictures of any lost loved ones of students and staff, along with the last bounties of the harvest, and symbols of death.

One or two girls had looked into the High Hall to see what was within, but none had stayed in there for longer than a cursory glance around other than Ada, who had visited the altar at the beginning of the night before emerging to join the festivities. Hecate sighed. Perhaps it had been optimistic to include it when there were more exciting activities on offer, but she knew that it would make all the difference to those who needed it most.

It was then that Hecate caught sight of a figure in pink that made her think her heart had stopped in her chest. By the table towering with toffee apples, talking to gaggle of enlivened girls, was none other than Pippa Pentangle. In the sea of formal black robes, Pippa stood out brighter than ever, her laughter carrying over the beat of the music as she sent dozens of heart-shaped cupcakes, frosted in lurid orange and acid green, flying over the heads of the students, who jumped to catch them out of the air.

This was a reunion Hecate did not wish to have—not today. Too much had happened already with her magic returning, which it would be impossible to regard with any sort of positivity today. At least she had somewhere to which she could escape; she ducked through the heavy curtains to the High Hall.

The curtains muffled the sound blaring from the music—they had a charm cast on them so that this space would remain solemn and untainted by the popular music of which young witches were fond these days. Predictably, not a soul was in this room; Hecate was alone at last—no flying cupcakes, atrocious music, or Pippa Pentangle to bother her—with the flickering candles and the silent portraits on the altar as the only witnesses to her grief.

Pippa’s pink form looming across the room clouded her vision. Why was _she_ here? Did she not have her own school’s Hallowe’en event to run? Hecate wished that at least on this night she would not have to deal with the confusing feelings that Pippa evoked in her. 

Hecate tried to allow her thoughts to still as she approached the altar and touched her hand to one of the pictures. No one had seen her place it here—the greying photograph of a woman with long dark hair and a nose like hers. Amidst the various pictures surrounding her that some of the girls had contributed, she looked out at Hecate with the her soft eyes from another age. Hecate yearned for the cool air and the towers of flame that brought her solace at this time of year. Her fingers pressed against her pocket watch until the filigree of the half-hunter casing cut into her fingertips.

Through the window, the crescent moon rested on a bed of gentle clouds. The wind had died down now; the night was crisp, with a few remaining wisps of fibrous cloud barely holding together. It should have been a beautiful night to reflect on the brief time that she had had to share with her mother, but through the curtain was a testament to how modern ways trampled offensively over the sanctity of ancient ritual.

The sweeping aside of the curtain was audible in the quietness, and Hecate gave an automatic shudder before she had a chance to look away from the altar to check who had disturbed her peace. Her instincts told her that she knew who it was before she confirmed it.

“Hecate,” came the unmistakeable sweet voice. “I thought I might find you in here. You always did find this time of year difficult.”

Hecate turned, and her shining eyes met Pippa’s. Now that she could see her closer, she saw that Pippa was dressed almost exactly how Hecate had imagined she would be—princess-like, as if pulled straight from the pages of a fairytale—her hair not loose, but arranged into an ornamental sculpture of a bouffant, with the sides twisted back elegantly, and a tiara perched atop, glittering silver and sparkling with jewels. She wore a froofy dress—a mixture of pastel pink ruffles puffing out the skirt like an overblown rose—and from her hand, to complete the image, was raised a plastic silver wand with a star on the end. To Hecate, in her funereal plain black robe, it was as though Pippa had brought a celebration to a wake. Her voice felt strained by a myriad of emotions as she asked, “Why are you here?”

Pippa’s mouth twitched at the affront of the comment, but she ducked her head in admission of her own part to play in Hecate’s emotional state, the plastic wand limp as her hands folded in front of her in the manner of a guilty schoolgirl. “I came to apologise, Hecate.”

“You have nothing for which you should apologise.” She looked away, back to the altar, finding the restless candle flames. “You put yourself at risk coming here—for nothing.”

Pippa took a few steps towards Hecate. “But I think I do. Hecate, look at me.”

Hecate obeyed. She could feel her breath within her trembling, coming in starts as she struggled to maintain her exterior shell. Pippa could not know what she felt—it had to be kept locked down where she could manage it. “Pippa—you did what you had to do. I think you have made your point. Now you should leave.”

“If you don’t want to listen to me, at least read this,” Pippa murmured, holding out the plastic wand. Before Hecate could react, in a mist of stars, it transfigured into an envelope bearing her name. It was not the same one that Hecate had found in the inside pocket of Pippa’s riding jacket. Pippa’s thumb rested on its crisp new paper; the letter quivered in the air as she offered it.

Hecate closed her fingers over the envelope, and as she did, Pippa’s other hand covered hers. “Please,” Pippa said softly. “I will be here until seven.”

Pippa turned, her dress bouncing behind her. She lifted a hand to wipe the lower lids of her eyes before pushing aside the curtain and leaving Hecate alone in the room. The room’s sombreness was resumed; Pippa had bereft it of all brightness with her departure, and yet Hecate could not shake the glaringly cheerful outfit from swelling her lungs with anxiety.

Hecate had to sit down in the aftermath of that conversation—she fell heavily on one of the velvet-upholstered chairs at the side of the room, the letter in her hands. This was why Pippa had come. Hecate dreaded to think what could be contained within. She set the sealed envelope on her lap.

Her mother’s portrait watched over her from the altar. She was struck, as she often was, by the gratitude that her mother had never lived to see her fall from grace when she had been punished for causing Indigo Moon’s demise. Even so—her mother had died before she had come to Cackle’s, and so she had never seen what an accomplished witch Hecate had grown up to be.

Hecate liked to believe her mother was still watching over her. What would her mother have thought of the way she was behaving with Pippa Pentangle? Hecate had been old enough to understand something of her mother’s character—her love, at the very least—yet too young to have asked all the questions she had wanted to know. The details she could recall were limited to the strong sensory experience she had of her, but only fragments of her mother’s stories of her upbringing in Spain, because she had felt too self-conscious—too naïve to ask her to repeat them over and again so that she would remember every detail. As a child, one does not realise the preciousness of human memory, nor that one day, carrying the memories of those we have loved will be our hardest responsibility.

The envelope burned pale pink against her dark robe—her name reflected back at her—accusing—compelling her to read its contents. Time was passing with every moment she delayed. Whatever the letter contained, Pippa evidently hoped that Hecate would see her—and would communicate something with her once she had read it. 

She unfolded the flap from where it was tucked into the back, and drew out the two pages from inside, accidentally catching isolated words as her eyes found her name written at the top of the first leaf.

_Dear Hecate,_

_I’m sorry for the way that I left. It wasn’t my intention to upset you. I can see that I have, and in hindsight, it’s fully understandable._

_You were right in thinking that it wasn’t my headmistress duties that drew me away. The truth is that I never did quite get over you leaving me. I know it’s ridiculous—a woman of my age shouldn’t admit to such things. It wasn’t because of anything you’ve done recently. You have been nothing but warm and welcoming to me, and even though this whole situation has been unthinkably difficult for you, you never once disappointed me. It was hard to see you suffering and in pain, but I know that this was due to the complicated effects of the chant, and the frustration of not having the control over your magic that you value so much._

_There is something that I need to admit. The reason why my chant was having such a strong effect on you was because of our history. The way you left me was devastating—there’s no way to sugar-coat that. I still don’t know why you broke my heart like that. But it doesn’t matter. We were children. As you know, modern magical methods draw from emotions, and the emotions I had—well, they seemed to come back from across the years and transferred into you. As soon as I realised what was happening, I knew that I was the wrong person to heal you. And given your relationship with Ada, it was wrong that I should hurt you with my petty unresolved feelings when you have found in her a deserving partner._

_I have the fullest confidence in Gwen Bat and her ability to heal you. She is the best Chanter that I know—and the intensity of the spell’s effects in this case was not an indicator that it was working. I can’t know for certain, but I think that with her you will see improvements more quickly than you could with me._

_I regret that I have hurt you. You sacrificed your life, your magic, for me and I repaid you like this. For everything, I am sorry. You have nothing to apologise for. The past is the past, and I need to learn to accept that._

_Pippa_

Hecate’s heart hammered in her chest as she stared at the words. Pippa—still broken-hearted after all this time—it was true. Her anxieties over the reasons behind Pippa’s departure were real, and it was all her fault. She had imparted her own trauma into Pippa—she had caused her an irreparable emotional wound that time had done nothing to heal.

The truth, when written in Pippa’s elegant handwriting, felt exponentially worse than her own thoughts speculating on the matter. _The way you left me was devastating—there’s no way to sugar-coat that._ That Pippa, an expert in tact, could not mollify the statement, spoke volumes. _I still don’t know why you broke my heart like that._ It haunted her.

It was clear to her now that Pippa thought her relationship with Ada was romantic—_you have found in her a deserving partner_—suddenly, many things that Pippa had said made far more sense. Hecate did not know whether it would be kinder to let Pippa believe that she and Ada were together. Perhaps Pippa would be able to find peace. Yet she had not done so thus far. Hecate knew that she would not be able to lie to Pippa any more than she was already in hiding the truth about the reason why she had left her—and it would be inappropriate to pretend to be in a romantic relationship with her headmistress. If she had learnt anything from decades of teaching, it was that lies had a habit of spiralling out of control. Should the lie make its way back to Ada, or worse, the Magic Council—that would be worse than the agony of rectifying the mistaken belief.

Hecate checked the time. It was a quarter to seven. She needed to see Pippa before she left—she wanted so much to be able to run away to recover from the letter and the emotional tornado brewing inside her, but this would not serve to correct Pippa on her misapprehensions. Steeling herself, she strode back through the curtain, plunging from silence into the blaring sound of the music.

* * *

Although Hecate thought herself hardly distinguishable from the crowds about her, Pippa noticed her from across the room as she emerged from the curtain to walk over. Hecate picked out a path through the girls dancing haphazardly, trying to stop her world from spinning as bodies turned into her intended route. Normally, she would have used her teacher voice to command her way be made clear, but she felt anything but confident after reading that letter. Pippa’s expression grew anxious as Hecate finally reached her.

“Pippa,” Hecate said in a low voice, fighting to keep down her fear amidst the festivities around them both. “We need to talk—somewhere private.”

She held out her hand for Pippa to take. Pippa did so, tentatively, and Hecate transferred them without a word more.

“Hecate!” Pippa exclaimed as she rematerialised. “You— you used magic! You’re— better?”

Hecate bowed her head. “Yes, it seems so.”

Pippa looked around herself to get her bearings and adjust to the darkness. Hecate had transferred them up onto the battlements of the castle. Indoors, dealing with that much emotion, had been making Hecate feel quite claustrophobic. Out here, the sky was a dusky navy, speckled with stars that kept vigil over the quiet mountains surrounding the castle. The crescent moon was just bright enough to illuminate vague outlines of the craggy shapes of rocks below. A lantern nearby cast their shadows into harsh relief against the castellations.

“You’ve read my letter, then,” Pippa said, a little breathlessly, drawing her arms around herself.

“I have.”

Hecate was not sure where exactly to begin, the abrupt contrast in their location at once draining all thoughts and words from her. She swallowed, knowing that Pippa was waiting for her—and knowing that Pippa had to leave soon. This did not have to take long. The sooner she spoke up, the sooner she could release Pippa to her own Hallowe’en celebrations.

“Y—you think that Ada and I—?”

Pippa shook her head. “Yes, I don’t want to get in between you and her.”

“No, what I mean is— Ada and I aren’t— Our relationship isn’t—”

“You don’t owe me an explanation, Hecate. I know,” Pippa said, the flickering lantern picking out the tears in her eyes.

“No, Pippa, you have misunderstood. I am not in love with Ada Cackle. Nor are we together in any romantic capacity.”

“Oh.” Pippa blushed. “Then—”

The stone bricks to Pippa’s side became suddenly interesting to Hecate as she tried not to react to Pippa’s embarrassment. “Whatever you may have seen, or heard, Ada is simply just a very affectionate person.”

Pippa stood shivering for a moment, and Hecate realised that her dress offered little in the way of warmth.

“But Pippa, I wish to apologise—”

“—Hecate, I assure you, you don’t n—”

“—for the way that I treated you when we were younger,” Hecate forged on, despite Pippa’s interjection. “I hurt you.”

“You did, Hecate,” Pippa whispered. “But I can’t blame you for my holding onto that hurt.”

Hecate’s brow furrowed, her own eyes filling with tears. “You should. You ought to. I wish you— I wish you would be less understanding about this. You have been making excuses for me for a long time, Pippa, but I deserve to be blamed.”

Pippa burst into tears. “I couldn’t— Hecate— don’t martyr yourself over this too.”

Hecate’s heart wrenched as the woman she adored—whom she could _not_ adore—broke down in front of her. “Pippa, look at me.”

Pippa did not look at her.

“Pippa, I want to take responsibility for the past,” Hecate continued. “I was wrong to treat you the way I did. I should not have just—left you when you needed me.”

“But Hecate—” Pippa was still shivering. 

Hecate bit her lip. “You’re cold. I should have chosen a less exposed location.” 

“But it’s so beautiful out here,” Pippa said, turning her face up to the sky, while her shoulders arched up against the chill in the air.

“Yes, it is.” What Hecate wanted to do was to hold her, to wrap her cloak around them both—but what she needed more than ever, given the information that Pippa had taken two decades to not get over her, was to keep her at arm’s length. But Pippa was cold.

“I believe it is my turn to warm your hands,” Hecate murmured, taking Pippa’s hand and guiding it up. Pippa acquiesced to the gesture, and held out her quaking hands. Barely grazing her skin with her palms, Hecate allowed her magic to flow through her and envelop Pippa’s cold hands.

As she channeled her magic, Hecate met Pippa’s golden brown eyes with her own. “Pippa, I want you to believe me when I say—you do not want to know why it is that I had to leave you, but that it was only through compassion for you that I did so.”

“But you don’t trust me enough to tell me?” Pippa said, withdrawing her hands from Hecate’s before the spell completed, the line between her eyebrows deepening in hurt. “How would you know what I do or don’t want to know about you—when you haven’t known me for over twenty years?”

Hecate stepped back in shock, moving out of the softly glowing light of the lantern. Of course—she should not presume to know Pippa. The words stung, but Hecate knew that that was no less than she had earned.

“Wait— Hecate, I’m sorry,” Pippa raised her hand to her heart. “I’m sorry— that was cruel of me to say.”

Hecate regained her composure, though tears had sprung to her eyes, and shook her head. “On the contrary—I am relieved you found it in yourself to be angry at me. I had almost forgotten how passionate you can be.” The corner of her lips curled weakly.

Pippa twisted her mouth sheepishly. “Do you remember what you used to call me when I would get so fired up defending you against those bullies at school?”

“All five feet and three inches of you.” Hecate broke into a smile, feeling the tears spilling down her cheek as she nodded. “Pipsqueak,” she whispered.

“Hey, I’m nearly five foot four,” Pippa retorted, sounding very much like the fiesty teenager she had been, particularly in her princess dress, which Hecate knew would have been the younger Pippa’s dream to one day wear.

“Pippa.” Hecate’s face turned serious once more. “There are things I cannot tell you— things about me that I am not proud of.”

“We all have things we’re not proud of, Hecate,” Pippa said, touching Hecate’s arm gently. Hecate flinched slightly at the contact, unable to control her reaction. “But I’m sure whatever it is, you have a good reason to keep it to yourself. You know you don’t have to tell me everything about yourself for me to trust you.”

It stung a little, that Pippa would trust her without knowing the truth, and yet Hecate could not tell her about her confinement—about Mistress Broomhead—about any of it. It was not a matter of trusting Pippa enough. It would hurt her too much to know the truth, and Pippa had already experienced too much hurt from Hecate.

“Thank you,” Hecate uttered. She did not think the fullness of her gratitude was conveyed with that phrase, but she could not find the adequate words for her sentiment. It meant everything to her that Pippa would trust her when she could not be entirely truthful. There was also something incredibly strengthening about knowing that Pippa now knew that there was something that she had done—something unforgivable—but that she accepted it. Hecate doubted that Pippa would feel the same way if she discovered what it was.

“I’d like— I’d like us to try to be friends again, Hecate,” Pippa stammered. “I really have missed the time we spent together while I was taking care of you at Westwood Lodge.”

“Of course,” Hecate replied, in as measured a tone as she could muster. “We must make time for chess when you are next at Cackle’s. In two weeks’ time there is the school’s Half Term trip, in which I will be not participating. Perhaps there is time in your calendar for a meeting with a deputy headmistress?”

“Why aren’t you going on the trip? Wouldn’t it be nice to get away?”

Hecate cleared her throat. “They are going camping. It is not quite my cup of tea. Someone has to stay behind to take care of the castle, and I would rather do that than— _camp_.”

“That’s true. Despite your— proclivities, you don’t strike me as the type who would enjoy camping,” Pippa said with a giggle. 

Hecate frowned slightly; she did not quite see the joke. “But you are welcome to join me here, if you would still like to visit Cackle’s when its only inhabitant is— me.”

“Very tempting. Or you could pop over to Pentangle’s,” Pippa beamed, her tiara catching the light from the lantern. “I’d love to show you around, Hecate— I think you’d really love to see my approach working for yourself. And the grounds, if I can boast about my own school, are nothing short of enchanting. And I promised you I would teach you how to ride a horse, didn’t I? I’m sure my riding class could take on one more student.” She gave Hecate a wink.

_There it is_, thought Hecate grimly. _The invitation I will always have to turn down._ The wink would have made her knees weak, had her stomach not lurched as she realised that she could never go to Pentangle’s, however much she wanted to.

Despite the fact of the excuses she would have to fabricate to avoid revealing that she could no more _pop over to Pentangle’s_ than she could leave the mountain they stood upon, Hecate glowed inside with the possibility that they could be on their way to a form of friendship. It was not the romance that Hecate knew she desired to re-ignite, but desire and prudence were two things that did not go hand-in-hand. With a teenage romance and an adult romance there were different expectations—different rules. They would never be able to live together, with Pippa headmistress of another school and Hecate bound to Cackle’s. Pippa would always have to be the one to travel to see Hecate, and Hecate could not accompany her anywhere on her beloved trips abroad to experience witching culture all over the world. It was not practical, and it was not prudent.

“That’s strange— Hecate, do you see that?” Pippa pointed out towards the forest.

Hecate followed where Pippa was indicating. Though the darkness was heavy upon the forest, Hecate could make out the smallest suggestion of where the canopy was glowing—and the unmistakeable sign of smoke pluming from it—a fire.

“It must be them,” Hecate whispered, fear gripping her throat. “Pippa, you must be careful returning to Pentangle’s tonight. In fact, you should consider staying tonight at Cackle’s. If anything happens to you again—”

“Don’t worry, Hecate. I’ll be fine.”

_Ada, please come to the northern wall of the castle immediately_, Hecate sent a quick message to Ada. “I have informed Ada. She will know what to do about our uninvited guests.”

A few moments later, Ada appeared. With a calm voice, but concern in her expression, asked, “Hecate— what’s the emergency?”

Hecate indicated the smoke in the distance. It took a minute for her eyes to adjust to the dark, but a sharp inhale told Hecate Ada had seen it.

“Our friends have stayed, then. I don’t think we can do anything about them tonight—not on such short notice with the girls awake all night. Miss Pentangle, I would be remiss if I did not offer you a room to stay in tonight if you think it will be safer to travel by daylight when we can arrange an escort for you.”

Pippa refused as politely as she could. “Hecate has already suggested that I stay, but I’m certain I can escape their notice. I know where they are, and if I fly low enough to the canopy, they won’t be able to see me against the sky.”

“Best start off due south,” Ada warned her. “And you must send us a message as soon as you arrive safely at Pentangle’s.”

Pippa promised that she would do so. She made a gesture and reached into a pocket in the air, and withdrew her broomstick. “Give my regards to the rest of the staff,” Pippa said. “I’ve already stayed a little too late and need to get back to my own party.”

Ada said her farewells, before transferring away. Hecate and Pippa were alone again, with the night breeze gently caressing around them.

“Well, I’d better go, then,” Pippa said awkwardly.

“You’re not flying dressed like that, are you?” Hecate said incredulously, indicating the froofy dress.

“What’s wrong with it?” Pippa laughed, before directing her hand over herself and changing into a simple pink dress and warm cloak. “Does this meet your approval?”

“I— I merely thought— it was not very aerodynamic,” Hecate said stiffly, irritated by the blush that tinted her cheeks.

Pippa approached her, and Hecate for a moment hesitated, unsure whether she wanted to pass by or embrace her—she assumed the latter, and stepped out of Pippa’s way. 

Pippa stumbled as Hecate moved unexpectedly. “What are you—?”

“Sorry, I— I thought you wanted to walk further along the battlements,” Hecate replied, certain that this would rank among her most embarrassing moments.

“No, I was going in for a hug, you silly witch,” Pippa shook her head in disbelief. “Shall we try that again?”

Hecate nodded and stood perfectly still as Pippa put her arms around her. Pippa’s hands still felt cold even through Hecate’s robe, and her head nuzzled into Hecate’s warmth in the most distracting way. It was then that Hecate realised that she was casting a warmth spell on Pippa without realising, willing her magic to keep Pippa warm—if not safe—on her flight home. Before she could have any further intrusive feelings, she drew away to temper the heat that was rising to her own ears.

“Thank you.” Pippa glowed with pleasure. “Good night, Hecate.”

“Fly safely,” Hecate responded, clasping her hands together in front of her self-consciously. 

Pippa mounted her broom and rose into the air over the battlements, and Hecate watched her fly off into the night until she could see her no longer. She lingered out in the cold, hoping with all her heart that Pippa would be safe on her flight back. As she stood there, her thoughts drifted to her mother’s comforting warm arms as she fiddled with the pocket watch weighing heavily around her neck, eyes raised to the dome of stars over her, wondering if her mother was looking down on her too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so you thought the quotation applied to Hecate? welp it's also PIPPA
> 
> i'm sorry this is so long and basically nothing happens in it but that's how it be sometimes
> 
> i really made you wait to read that letter, huh
> 
> this is pretty heavy emotionally so i'M SORRY. please take care of yourselves after you read this if you feel upset. I KNOW I WILL HAVE TO.
> 
> you can really tell i wanted to post this in time for halloween irl but with way the chapters worked out i couldn’t fit it in in time so i’m sorry this is like extremely off in terms of keeping up with current events
> 
> their goodbye is PEAK BRITISH AWKWARDNESS
> 
> IS FROOFY EVEN A WORD??????
> 
> aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa
> 
> i hope you like this one!!
> 
> i didn't check the wordcount on this one until i'd posted it and it's 25 words shy of being 16k OOPS
> 
> Heathcliff  
@heathtrash on tumblr and twitter


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As Parents' Evening and the school's Half Term camping trip approach, Hecate struggles with the idea of meeting Pippa as a friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “she wondered which wounds went the deeper: the jagged wounds of reality, or the profound invisible bruises of the imagination?”  
Vita Sackville-West, _All Passion Spent_

The rumours spread like wildfire. Miss Hardbroom had her magic back—that was the whisper that was on every corner, on every tongue, ever since she had vanished into thin air with Miss Pentangle the night of the Hallowe’en ball.

The day after Hallowe’en was a half day, since the girls had been allowed to stay up until midnight, as was customary. It was expected that the girls would sleep in so that they could get a good night’s rest, although the reality of this happening after so many sugary treats were on offer was second to none. Surely enough, when Hecate had arrived to take the First Year class’s register, a room of puffy-eyed stares of overtired children had greeted her, expectant for their teacher to perform magic once more.

It had been a thoughtless mistake—yet ever since Hecate had transferred she and Pippa to the battlements, where they had had that discussion that made her cheeks tingle an alarming pink with the mere memory—she had very much wanted to make that mistake again. As it was, she had barely been able to resist the lure of transferring wherever she could, but the other part of that mistake—her agreement with Pippa to become friends when Hecate was still bound to Cackle’s for the foreseeable future—was also weighing on her mind. Her ambivalence still wrenched her in two directions; her desire to be closer to Pippa battled against the need to keep Pippa in the dark about her confinement. It was selfish—it was irresponsible of her to even entertain the idea of being friends with Pippa. The letter should have been a warning to Hecate. The effect of her past actions on Pippa was still enough to affect Pippa’s magic; knowing as she did Pippa’s fragility when it came to her, Hecate had a duty to protect her from further pain.

Yet Pippa had _asked_ her if they could renew their friendship. Presuming to know Pippa’s mind better than her—by cutting herself off little by little from her—and in doing so, cutting away the part of her that needed Pippa more than the air she breathed, the magic that embraced her—making this decision for Pippa was the epitome of arrogance. Perhaps friendship was what Pippa needed to overcome the rent in her heart. Silence left words unsaid, feelings unresolved; accepting Pippa into her life even though she knew it would be the most painful thing she could do to herself was her obligation in order to help Pippa get over her.

While her magic returning presented its challenges, there were positive changes—Morgana had continued her assertively affectionate demanding of Hecate’s attention, but she was much more secure with her mistress leaving her each day. Their connection had been restored; it was so warming to feel Morgana’s listening presence in the corner of her mind, particularly after so long without being able to feel her there.

Yet, Hecate was still reluctant to reveal that her control over her magic had returned. She was certain that whenever she walked into a room, several conversations would stop abruptly. It did not entirely make one feel welcome, particularly on entering the staff room to see Miss Bat’s eyes swivel onto her, bulbous and suddenly alert, and the piercing, analytical glare of Vivian Darkside.

Ada kept quiet, as Hecate trusted she would, and Dimity looked as though she would hop out of her chair most of the time with the effort of keeping the secret safe. However, Hecate knew that the pretence could not be kept up much longer. The reasons she had for disguising the truth remained on her mind, despite her reassuring chat with Ada; she was still hesitating because of her belief that she would be criticised or thought badly of if she needed extra time to ease into her teaching schedule.

However, Hecate had to consider the way that her students were being affected by her substitute, Miss Darkside. Ethel still looked wretchedly tired whenever she arrived for registration. She had been ensuring that the girl was not skipping any more meals for studies by keeping her under a watchful eye, but this meant that Ethel had been staying up later to compensate for the lost time.

“I’ve had to kick her out of the library when I had to close it, and it was past midnight,” Miss Nightscribe had admitted when Hecate questioned her on Ethel’s study habits.

It was not a good sign that Ethel was still studying at all hours in the library—and when the library was closed—her room. With Parents’ Evening only next week, Hecate imagined that Ethel was desperately trying to make every last piece of homework count.

Hecate knew she must get past her concerns over how she would be perceived in taking the phased return rather than leaping back into teaching. If it was not for herself, it would be for her students. Vivian Darkside had taken this too far.

* * *

Ada was delighted to hear Hecate state her intentions to start her phased return; she knocked her tea pot—cosy and all—off the table during their meeting in her office. Hecate froze the tea pot in mid air, and the stream of amber tea from the spout shimmered for a moment before retracting back in as the pot righted itself and jumped back onto the table.

“It’s so _wonderful_ to see you do magic again, my dear,” Ada exclaimed, patting Hecate’s hand on the table, before taking off her glasses to wipe a tear from her eyes.

“It certainly is a relief,” Hecate agreed, her heart feeling a little lighter to see Ada’s happiness.

“I’ll sign the papers right away,” said Ada with a smile, pushing her glasses back up her nose. Hecate summoned first an inkwell on the table, and then a quill with a flourish of her hand, passing it to Ada delicately.

“I will have to inform Miss Darkside,” Hecate sighed, watching Ada sign her florid signature on the line below the agreement Ada had drafted about the number of hours Hecate was to work.

“Do you think she’ll be difficult?” Ada raised her eyes, looking over her spectacles at Hecate.

“Almost certainly. I insist upon teaching the girls by my own syllabus. Vivian Darkside does not like being contradicted.” Hecate took the quill back from Ada, re-dipped it in the inkwell, and signed her own name underneath. Despite her trepidation, it was incredibly satisfying.

Ada frowned slightly. “Is it worth at least trying to make some sort of compromise?”

“You remember our conversation regarding certain pupils, Ada,” Hecate reminded her.

“Ah yes. Try to—at the very least—make a show that you’ve considered her way. If she’s unreasonable— well, you know how best to handle these sorts of things. I’m sure you can be much assertive with her than I could. I’ve far too soft a heart for that.”

Hecate looked appreciatively at Ada. “That is why we work so well together, Ada. You are compassionate, where I am stern.”

“Stern but always fair. I’m so lucky to have you as my deputy, Hecate. Now I’m sure you have much to get on with now you’re a teaching member of staff again. Just make sure you don’t work yourself too hard.”

“Yes, Headmistress,” Hecate said, with a fond smile as she turned to leave.

* * *

Ada had always been such a positive influence in Hecate’s life. While Hecate had informed Miss Darkside to join her in her office later that day, and was not anticipating the conversation with any joy, after her conversation with Ada, she felt adequately prepared to make clear her position with Miss Darkside. 

Hecate swept into her office, her eyes finding all the subtle—and some of the not-so-subtle—changes that Miss Darkside had made to her organisation since she had been using it. Hecate settled herself at her green leather-topped writing desk, jabbing her finger at the offending objects to begin restoring order to the room.

The knock came at the door precisely at the second the hour turned. The door opened before Hecate could react; the straight-backed figure of Miss Darkside, her high collar buttoned tightly over her throat, marched in and assumed her position at the desk facing Hecate.

“You reorganised my office,” Hecate said by way of acknowledging Miss Darkside’s presence. Since Miss Darkside had walked in without waiting to be granted entry, pleasantries could be excused.

“It was inefficient,” Miss Darkside returned.

Hecate blanched. _Inefficient?_ Being accused of such a thing, and by one such as Vivian Darkside—it was unthinkable—although, as Hecate reminded herself, the very same Vivian Darkside had piled a vastly inefficient level of work onto her First Years. She had definitely dropped several rungs in Hecate’s esteem. Hecate had to remind herself that the woman was one with ludicrously high standards—and clearly her judgment was in question if she thought that Hecate’s office was inefficiently organised.

“We shall have to disagree on that,” Hecate said sharply.

They sat opposite each other in mutual discomfort. Miss Darkside was like her—too much like her for comfort. It was like sitting at an unkind mirror and seeing herself reflected back—and not just in appearance; she reminded Hecate of the stony-hearted woman she was struggling not to be.

“Miss Darkside, I wish to discuss with you the schedule of my returning to work. I must also request that you show me the content of your syllabus as I gather it is different to that which I have carefully curated.”

Miss Darkside’s outrage was barely contained beneath her pale, drawn face. “Indeed? And do you expect you will be returning so quickly? Only I thought you were supposed to be rather unwell.”

Hecate knew that she had had an effect on Miss Darkside and took it in her stride, keeping Ada’s advice in mind. “I am in fact better, but I will be starting part-time. Miss Cackle has recommended that I commence a phased return to work, which will mean that we shall have to share our teaching duties. I will need access to your lesson notes if we are to work in accord, Vivian,” she said airily.

“I must admit I did not anticipate that I would have to learn of your improved health via gossip and hearsay,” Miss Darkside said in a shrill voice.

“You would be astonished at how news can break unintentionally in a small school such as this. I am formally telling you now.”

Miss Darkside drew herself up straighter in the chair opposite Hecate, her eyes flaring with indignation.

Hecate kept her expression level. “Your syllabus, Vivian?”

“Very well,” Miss Darkside shot back icily, summoning a black leather folio and lowering it into Hecate’s expectant hand.

Hecate opened the folio and cast her eyes down the syllabus for the First Years. Miss Darkside’s handwriting was stunted and flat at the bottom, as if she had written against a wooden rule. Hecate immediately saw that none of the standard basics had been covered, and that all the potions were of a level she would not even have set for a Third Year class without hesitation. 

“I did not say you could leave,” Hecate said, without lifting her eyes from the page as Miss Darkside stood from her chair.

“I beg your pardon?” Miss Darkside turned her head back towards Hecate. “I have important business to attend to elsewhere.”

Hecate looked up and fixed Miss Darkside with a penetrating gaze. “I will remind you that I am deputy headmistress of this school,” she uttered in a warning tone, “and at the moment, your business lies with me.”

Miss Darkside sat down again wordlessly, her collar stiffening as the tendons in her neck tensed.

“Now,” Hecate said, setting down the folio. “In order not to confuse the girls, it is best that we return to _my_ syllabus.”

The shock on Miss Darkside’s face was so intense that Hecate could taste the iron of her blood in the air as it boiled inside her. “But the syllabus I have been following is council-approved.”

“It is not appropriate for the level that the students of this academy can achieve. I have received complaints that I think are not unwarranted.”

Miss Darkside’s eyes widened and an ink bottle began to rattle on the desk. “Are you questioning the Magic Council?”

Hecate’s hand closed over the trembling ink bottle and held it tightly against the desk for a beat, feeling the reverberations die down through the bones of her fingers. “Control yourself, Vivian. I am questioning the sanity of setting work blindly without consideration of the consequences.”

“The _consequences_ are that these girls get whipped into shape as young initiates of the Craft.”

Hecate sighed, and tilted her head calmly. “The consequences are that girls are skipping meals and devoting every waking hour to panicked study. Although I do not advocate for _fun_ within my classroom, I expect that my students are allowed some time to—at the very least, eat and sleep—but also to be able to work refreshed, having had their own personal time to let off some steam.”

Miss Darkside fumed silently.

“One of the students in my form, Ethel Hallow, has practically made herself unwell trying to keep up to your standards. Prior to your involvement in her education, she was excelling and on the path for a flawless report card. It is likely that her mother, who is on the Magic Council, and her father, who sits as Chairman of the School Governors, will be displeased that their daughter is receiving middling marks and may even seek to punish the school for it. The Hallows are among our greatest witching families, but they are not best known for their forgiveness.”

“You cannot expect me to sacrifice my academic integrity and bend to the whim of a single girl’s family, purely because they have a reputable lineage,” Miss Darkside glowered.

“Perhaps not, but I do expect you to teach according to my lesson plans. I will provide you with the schedule for my phased return and my syllabus.”

“I will not bow to a stultified curriculum to suit a few underachievers who should not be at this institution,” Miss Darkside said through gritted teeth.

“You will not? Then I shall easily be able to find someone who can follow simple instructions and do the job she was asked to perform,” Hecate retorted, hardly able to believe what she was saying, but propelled on through sheer adrenaline. “You may leave the castle at your convenience. Good day.”

Miss Darkside got to her feet, pure venom in her eyes. “You will regret your insolence, Hecate Hardbroom.”

“I do not believe I will,” Hecate replied, her anxiety tempered with relief.

The door slammed behind Miss Darkside as she left, leaving Hecate with ringing ears and a sense of achievement. The tyranny of Miss Darkside was over.

* * *

Hecate made her way down to the library. While Miss Nightscribe would not have been her first choice as a supply witch, she was the best option on short notice. The rest of the staff were all full-time—and working in a boarding school of young witches meant that they all had to be on hand to deal with any unexpected issues that may arise from magical mishaps.

The library was fairly empty at this hour on a Saturday morning. Miss Nightscribe was not by the front desk; Hecate stalked over to the shelves, throwing a beady eye down each as she passed to locate the librarian. 

Behind a tottering stack that looked as though it were held together by magic alone was Miss Nightscribe, in a sleek charcoal grey trouser suit. Her wavy brown hair tumbled over her forehead as she bent over a rickety trolley, which was piled with a number of volumes.

Hecate strode down the narrow passage to where the librarian was shelving books. “Miss Nightscribe. I have need of your assistance.”

“Oh, Miss Hardbroom?” Miss Nightscribe looked suddenly up from the trolley, eyes surprised over her half-moon spectacles. “Sorry, I didn’t hear you come in. What can I help you with?”

“Our supply witch is no longer be available to continue covering my lessons.” Hecate paused for a moment. Her conversation with Miss Darkside was still raw in her mind. “I am commencing my phased return this coming week and would like you to step in—if you have the time.”

“Me, Miss Hardbroom?” The librarian looked faintly shocked at the prospect.

“If you can mix a potion as well as you can locate interesting research, you will be more than adequate for the job,” Hecate said, amused by the look on the young librarian’s face. “And if you perform well on this, after Half Term you may commence your proposed History of Magic course.”

Miss Nightscribe’s face lit up. The book she had been levitating up to the top shelf tumbled from the air in a flutter of pages. As she stepped forward to pick up the fallen tome, she tripped over the wheel of the trolley—Hecate caught her elbow as she staggered.

“Please do try to exercise some more care in my potions laboratory,” Hecate said, frowning and releasing Miss Nightscribe’s arm, whose face was now flushing. “Should you wish to take on the task, of course. There is no obligation and this will not affect our decision to take you on as a member of teaching staff eventually.”

“Sorry—I’m just very excited and I really want to do a good job. I can definitely mix a potion, and I’d love to get some teaching experience,” Miss Nightscribe said eagerly, her embarrassment still evident in her pink nose and cheeks.

“Very well. I can show you where everything is kept and brief you on the way that I like my lessons to be run,” Hecate said primly.

“Thank you, Miss Hardbroom!” Miss Nightscribe exclaimed. “I can’t begin to tell you how much I appreciate this!”

_At least she is enthusiastic rather than actively hostile_, Hecate supposed. “Until later, then. Please arrive promptly after dinner.”

“I will—thank you again!”

* * *

Miss Nightscribe proved a quick study—as Hecate had hoped she would, considering that there was precious little time to prepare. She was to teach on the Tuesday and Thursday that Hecate was to take off, as well as any afternoons Hecate could not manage.

Ada had declared it a splendid idea to involve Miss Nightscribe, even though it was regrettable that Miss Darkside had reacted in the way that she had to Hecate’s criticism of her schedule. When Hecate repeated what Vivian had said to her, Ada agreed that Hecate was correct to let her go.

“I’m sure she’s bluffing,” Ada said about Miss Darkside’s parting words, on Wednesday evening, when they met for a drink after dinner in Ada’s office.

“I am not certain,” Hecate said, sipping the hot chocolate Ada had made her gingerly. It was very sweet. “Let us hope that the Magic Council do not insist upon that version of the syllabus being taught at Cackle’s.”

“I wonder who approved it?” Ada said, her brow furrowed. “No one who has been near a classroom in about a century, I suspect.”

Hecate quietly agreed. “I suspect that it never received approval at all, and Miss Darkside was clutching at twigs.”

“Another possibility. Anyway,” Ada said, much more brightly, “how is our librarian getting along?”

“As well as can be, I would say,” Hecate admitted, with only a trace of reluctance in her voice. “I watched a few of her classes and the girls behaved well for her. She was nervous to begin with but I think that is only natural in her circumstance.”

“Hecate, you didn’t,” Ada laughed, shaking her head. “You know you’re supposed to be taking time _off_, don’t you?”

“You know me, Ada,” Hecate raised an eyebrow. “I am not inclined towards idleness.”

* * *

The mirror gave off a magical buzz. Hecate had not been expecting a call; it was rare that anyone should wish to contact her unscheduled. For a fleeting second she considered the possibility that it might be Pippa and felt her ears start to burn. 

The startlingly pink sight that greeted her disabused her of all thoughts that it could be any other person. The room Pippa was in must have been Pippa’s chambers; a bedpost could be seen in the background, along with a tasselled corner of a plush pastel throw haphazardly cast over a hint of a deep violet bed linen.

“Goodness, Hecate—are you in a dungeon?”

Hecate paused for a moment while she processed the question. “These are my personal chambers in the teachers’ wing,” Hecate responded as unemotionally as she could. She thought her living space was neat enough, but clearly the austere and ancient stone walls of Cackle’s could not compare to the pink damask wallpaper Hecate could see behind Pippa.

Pippa laughed off her own mistake. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. You’ve never been one for a lot of colour.”

Hecate lowered her eyes. She could not disagree with the assessment.

“Well, what are you up to today? It’s Saturday, so I’m sure you must have some free time to come and visit me,” Pippa smiled, brows raised in hope. “And Princess?”

Hecate cleared her throat. “I’m afraid that I have much preparation to attend to. Tonight is Parents’ Evening.”

Pippa’s surprise as she processed this was tangible. “Are you already back teaching?”

Hecate nodded. “For a week now.”

“Oh, you should have told me when you started back. I wanted to wish you luck,” Pippa said with a slight pout.

“That is not necessary,” Hecate replied. “I have been teaching here for twenty-six years and have no need of luck.”

“You know what I mean,” Pippa said, rolling her eyes.

Hecate swallowed. She had misunderstood Pippa’s intent, which seemed obvious now. Being open in seeking validation from others did not come naturally to her; she was used to Ada’s method of reassuring her when she did not even know that she was in need of it.

“So how about tomorrow?” Pippa suggested.

“I will be seeing the school off for their Half Term camping trip,” Hecate said.

“Oh,” said Pippa, looking a little crestfallen. “Of course, you’re taking care of the castle while everyone’s away.”

“That is correct.”

“I should visit you then, so that big old castle doesn’t seem quite as lonely,” Pippa’s eyes sparkled in the light of a lamp just out of mirror-shot.

Hecate’s stomach tightened as the gold tones in Pippas eyes shone into her own. “I can think of no reason why that would not be possible,” she said, hands writhing in her lap where Pippa could not see them.

“Try to sound a little more enthusiastic, Hecate,” Pippa teased. 

“I merely—”

“I know, Hecate. You don’t need to explain everything.”

To Hecate, Pippa’s smile was baffling. She could never determine if Pippa was genuinely happy or meaning something else by her smile. Now, seeing her smile, Hecate felt oddly as though she were being examined on the inside.

“I’ll be in touch then,” Pippa winked.

The mirror went dark as the explosion of pink was replaced by the grey stone walls and her own face, heavy with shadow and failure—her failure, among many things, to understand Pippa’s sentiment. Hecate’s gaze fell upon her hands on the dressing table so she would not have to meet her own critical eye, before she turned to leave her chambers and put her time towards more productive purposes.

* * *

Alone in the potions laboratory, Hecate inked out report statements onto cards. She had a system whereby all that she said was uniformly fair—a general overview of performance and engagement, a remark on the girl’s individual progression, and comments pointing out areas for improvement—and she even went so far as to standardise the language she used according to her personal marking scheme.

It was certainly destined to be a challenge for Hecate to be able to comment on the girls’ performance, what with her being out of the castle for an entire month. Ideally, Miss Darkside would have been in attendance to corroborate Hecate’s accounts of their performance, but that was not to be, since Miss Darkside had decided that she would not fulfil her duty as supply witch.

Owing to Miss Darkside’s marking being wholly useless—apparently being judged by some standard hereto unforeseen by witching kind—Hecate surmised that she would have to merely comment on that which she had been present for, rather than attempting to re-mark seventy-five girls’ homework for the month of October by that evening.

Hecate would have preferred to have held the interviews in her own office, which was much more formal a setting, but Ada thought it better to showcase the school’s facilities by having each member of staff based in their teaching space. 

Hecate had spent some hours in the morning after Pippa’s call to ensure the potions laboratory was stringently clean and appropriately presentable. She could not help her mind from pondering pink damask wallpaper while she created a display of bottled potions that her students had made that week, labelled with each girl’s name and form. She also set up her desk with three chairs opposite her own to accommodate each girl and up to two parents. 

Hecate finished her preparations well in advance of lunch, but when Ada stopped by to look around and mentioned, “the walls could do with a little sprucing up,” Hecate forewent with food to frantically sift through the recent homework to find something suitable to fill the blank voids of bare stone. Miss Darkside had of course set nothing but essays, which did not add much to the monochrome grey room, so Hecate turned to the work she had been setting on survival and first aid potions ahead of the school camping trip, which included a visual guide to common British herbs. She located some sugar paper in red, yellow, green, and purple—all the house colours—and cut them down to size by magic a little larger than the homework to form a coloured border. It was not ideal, but it was preferable to putting pages of text on the walls. Pippa Pentangle, Hecate was certain, would not have such a challenge in making her classrooms look attractive to parents, as they were most likely pretty all year.

“Wow, H.B., can you do mine next?” Dimity’s voice jogged Hecate’s concentration upon walking into the classroom.

“I cannot,” Hecate drawled as she worked on the lettering of a sign.

“You’re quite the calligrapher,” Dimity said in awe as she looked at the potions display, picking up some and admiring the labels in Hecate’s looping hand.

“Only through years of practice,” Hecate returned, not taking her eyes off her work. “Please do not change the order in which you found the potions, thank you.”

Hecate continued to mind Dimity snooping around her laboratory in her peripheral vision while she finished her sign. It was not the most decorative, but it was satisfactory for the purpose. 

“If you wanted to decorate your room, and have not yet done so, you had better do it now _before_ the parents arrive,” Hecate said sharply.

Dimity scurried out, a guilty expression on her face.

* * *

When Hecate had put the last finishing touches to her room, she joined the rest of the staff in the Entrance Hall, which was serving as the reception area for the arriving parents. Tea services, as well as tiered plates laden with sweet and savoury finger foods, floated between clusters of parents, levitated by prefects responsible for the hospitality of the guests. 

It was always surprising to see quite so many adults when Hecate was so used to spending her time primarily with children. She lurked on the sidelines, watching as Miss Drill spoke with ease to parents about the competitiveness of the Cackle’s broomstick formation and witch ball teams. Even Miss Bat was charming—if causing some bafflement—in the way that she was wittering on about the castle’s history, occasionally twirling her conductor’s baton for emphasis on her enthusiasm for notable witches from the academy’s past. Miss Nightscribe, who was in attendance purely to give information about the school’s library resources, was being spoken to by a tall witch with flowing black curls and distractingly red lipstick—Hecate was a little scandalised to see the taller witch finger the lapel of Miss Nightscribe’s suit with a smile curling those red lips, causing Miss Nightscribe to blush and stammer something in reply.

Unlike her colleagues, Hecate considered that the less time she had to spend being a source of entertainment, the better. She thought about how Pippa would act in a situation like this—she would flit gracefully between groups, raising her hand to her forehead in the usual salutation, smiling as she offered drinks to her guests. What would Pippa make of her now—skulking in the shadows—anxiously going over students’ reports in her mind—struggling to maintain an attentive yet detached façade.

It was strange seeing the girls with their parents. Some were delighted to be reunited, like Mildred Hubble, who was being squeezed by a wildly curly-haired woman draped in shawls, necklaces, a peacock feather-patterned head band, and a bright-coloured blouse with bell sleeves that Hecate assumed were the attempts of an Ordinary person at dressing in a ‘magical’ way. It frustrated Hecate that Ms Hubble seemed to be fitting easily into conversation with the magical folk around her, spouting some ludicrous nonsense about a mobile cave that the others were lapping up as if it had a shred of truth to it. 

Other guardians seemed almost indifferent to their children—one in particular was Mr Hallow, who schmoozed with the illustrious Nathaniel Nightshade with folded arms over his grey three-piece suit, pointedly ignoring his younger daughter, who seemed to be torn between wanting to peel away from his side and craving the scraps of attention he was unlikely to cast her way.

Hecate managed to suffer her way through several conversations while standing stoically beside the further education and career development boards aimed at the Fifth Years’ parents, giving general advice about options for leavers. Even though it was only halfway through the first term, there were always some parents who were keen to start on university applications and placements for their daughters. Hecate was always awkward and stilted around adults who had left academia far behind and were excelling in fields of which she could only dream. The encounters with the Old Cacklians were always the strangest, and particularly with those with whom she had attended school—she would never forget the first time a parent of a student Hecate was teaching turned out to be one of her cohort. The fact that those of Hecate’s age were now old enough to have established themselves and raised children made her feel as though she had frittered away her life’s potentiality somehow—even though she hadn’t the slightest inclination towards childbirth, nor had she much in the way of choice about the direction her career had taken. Yet, as she reminded herself, straightening her sleeve cuffs, she would not have changed it for anyone.

Hecate counted down the moments until she could escape to her potions laboratory. As deputy head, she had felt the obligation to stay for as long as possible, even though that meant being uncomfortably tied into conversations with parents she had seen year after year, some of whom were under the impression that this was a social event.

She managed to excuse herself on account of preparing for her first interview, and with the tightness in her chest gradually unfolding, she slipped past the elegantly drawn signs showing the way to the various classrooms, towards the potions laboratory. 

The girls and their parents were to be seen alphabetically by year group. Hecate had a long list of appointments to get through, and a strict schedule to keep, since there were so many girls and their parents to see—and many of the parents would have questions regarding their girls’ potions marks, all of which were unexpectedly low due to Miss Darkside’s meddling.

After the first few interviews, Hecate had become so used to explaining the situation with the marking that it was beginning to feel quite tiresome. Fortunately, this was received mostly with understanding from parents after the initial disappointment wore off. Hecate noted that none of the girls this year had been reduced to tears; she could not decide if it were due to her increased tolerance after Pippa had made her see the damage constant disparagement could have, whether the girls were comparatively less terrified of her than they were of Miss Darkside, or that the girls’ acceptance that their grades had been warped by Miss Darkside had prepared them for a bad report.

At last she came to _Hallow, Ethel_ on her list. Usually a Hallow’s name brought her the satisfaction of being able to give a flawless report, but she was disappointed that this occasion would mean she would have to break with tradition.

She opened the door to the chamber outside the potions lab, finding Mr Hallow seated on one of the chairs, with Ethel hovering at his elbow. Her eyes were already wide in panic, fully on alert. 

“Well met, Mr Hallow,” Hecate said, raising her hand to her forehead and bowing low in deference. “Always a pleasure to see you at Cackle’s.”

“Ursula sends her apologies. She has important matters to attend to with The Magic Council,” Mr Hallow said in his most pompous voice as he walked in, followed by a meek Ethel, hands clasped before her. It was a very un-Ethel-like pose; she usually held her nose high in the air as though she owned the place. However, in the presence of her father, who practically _did_ own the place, she was surprisingly—perhaps worryingly—subdued.

They both took their seats at the front desk opposite Hecate, who flipped her marking book to Ethel’s page.

“I take it this isn’t to be a glowing report,” Mr Hallow began impatiently, brandishing the report card in his hand that all parents were given prior to Parents’ Evening, just as Hecate opened her mouth to start speaking.

“I can address the marks that were given to your daughter by the supply witch during my absence, having reviewed them myself, and—”

“—so what are you going to do about this?” Mr Hallow jabbed his finger at the ‘B’ on Ethel’s report card. “My daughter is _failing_ her first year of her witching career and Cackle’s isn’t going to do something about it? She was never going to be as intelligent or as original a thinker as her elder sister Esmerelda, but to flat out _fail_—”

Ethel stared into the woodgrain of the table, the normally perky bow of her black hair ribbon limp in defeat. 

Hecate swelled in anger, but kept her tone low. “Ethel Hallow is one of the most capable witches in this year, even in this entire school if she continues with the diligence—”

“They can’t be very capable as a whole then if this is the standard they are held against,” Mr Hallow interrupted her, still pressing the tip of his finger firmly against the report card, which, with the exception of Potions, was entirely As. “Standards are slipping at Cackle’s. Mrs Hallow told me as much. Have been for years. You and Ada had better straighten out your pointy hats if you want to stay on here as part of leadership.”

Hecate felt her stomach drop at the bald criticisms Mr Hallow was laying down. As Mr Hallow was Chairman of the School Governors, and Mrs Hallow the Head of Education on The Magic Council, their opinion was of great consequence, and it was they above all whom Hecate must appease.

“Ethel and her classmates have been marked unfairly according to a set of criteria that are not standard at Cackle’s Academy. May I remind you, Mr Hallow, that a B is far from a failing grade. She only achieved such a high mark because of her exceptional performance at the start of the year, and her continued hard work means that she has been maintaining an above average grade. You cannot judge the school’s performance based on one interim supply witch who will never again find employment here.”

Mr Hallow’s face pulsed an angry crimson, moustache twitching in anger, and jumped to his feet. “A Hallow should have done better. A Hallow wouldn’t have stumbled in the face of adversity.”

“Ethel will not face reprimand for performing, overall, top of her class in extraordinary circumstances,” Hecate said icily, barely able to keep her cool. “Please resume your seat.” 

Ethel winced as her father sat down and straightened his tie. “Well then! What are you going to do about her academic record, if this supply witch’s marks are not to your standards?”

“All of the marking performed by the supply witch will be re-done by me personally—and I guarantee you, Mr Hallow, Ethel will receive the A that is due to her.”

An uncomfortable silence followed.

“Well, is there anything else?” Mr Hallow said incredulously, making a big shoe of looking at his expensive wristwatch.

Hecate looked at Ethel, with the events of Mabon passing through her mind. The truth was that Ethel had made a few mistakes, and several enemies of many of the girls in her year. It was not the behaviour she had anticipated when she saw a new Hallow was to be joining Cackle’s Academy. Less serious, but of personal injury, was the hurtful remark that Ethel had made, _“You don’t need to be tall enough if you just do it with magic,”_ when Hecate had attempted to enlist her help in putting up the fairy lights at the Hallowe’en Ball, to spare her the ordeal of being more creative.

“I trust you heard about the events at our Mabon festival,” Hecate said softly. 

Ethel’s eyes met Hecate’s, pleading with her silently.

“There was a letter,” Mr Hallow shrugged.

“You may not have gathered, but your daughter was in the direct line of danger when the unfortunate incident happened.” Hecate had, of course, no intention of making Ethel out to be in the wrong, insofar as the creation of the Blight went. She did not think the Hallow pride of either Ethel or Mr Hallow could suffer such a blow, and moreover, Hecate believed it had been her negligence as Ethel’s form mistress that she had not engaged in a more active monitoring of Ethel’s Mabon project. Mr Hallow would certainly see it in the same way.

“Why am I only hearing about this now?” Mr Hallow rounded on his daughter, who crumpled her shoulders and shied away from him.

Before Hecate could interject, Ethel spoke up. “Father, it was Miss Hardbroom who saved me. She risked her life and was badly injured. So don’t blame her for my failings.”

Mr Hallow was somewhat pacified. “Indeed?”

“I merely did my duty as Ethel’s teacher,” Hecate responded, straightening her marking book on her table so that its edge was parallel to the table.

“Then allow me to commend you, Miss Hardbroom.” Mr Hallow gave a pleasant smile—a striking change from his despicable behaviour just a minute before—and a nod. “But I still want to see Ethel’s grade corrected.”

“Now I wish to speak to Ethel briefly in private,” Hecate said sharply, ignoring his comment.

Mr Hallow got to his feet, leaning over the desk, the smile at once vanished. “Anything you can say in front of my daughter you can say in front of me.” 

Hecate rose from her chair, not breaking eye contact with him as she demonstrated her full height; she was taller than him by several inches. She snapped her fingers and the door to the potions laboratory swung open. “As her teacher, I must insist,” Hecate hissed, her respect rapidly draining. 

Mr Hallow sighed heavily and stomped out, giving a scowl towards his daughter.

“Now, Ethel,” Hecate began in a much more gentle tone, waving her hand to close the door with a soft click, and sitting back down. “Are you all right?”

“Yes, Miss Hardbroom.” Ethel looked frightened, and Hecate could not blame her.

“I did not want to say this in front of your father, as I suspect his temper has had quite enough testing for one day—but you have had quite the turbulent term so far, and I hope that you will now come to me if you have any further difficulties.”

“Of course, Miss Hardbroom—”

“What I do not want to hear, Ethel, are any more reports of you terrorising the other girls. I understand that you have been under a lot of stress, but this is no excuse to treat your classmates with such venom.”

Ethel sank in her chair. “No, Miss Hardbroom.”

Hecate gave her a searching look, her brow tinged with sadness. It was uncomfortable to criticise a child when she had just seen where that child had learnt that behaviour, but her bullying and snide comments had gone unchecked for too long. “Strange as it may seem for a teacher to tell you this, but report cards are not the means by which you will be measured for the rest of your life. There are other qualities in a person that are equally, if not more important.”

“Not for a Hallow,” Ethel said, her voice still stung with hurt.

“I see and recognise the pressure that you are under,” Hecate said, trying to keep her posture unthreathening and her expression kind, as Ada might. “We will do all we can to support you, as long as you are willing to make a positive change.”

“I’ll do my best,” Ethel nodded.

“I hope that you will take the opportunity to enjoy your trip, and do try to stay out of any trouble.”

“I wish you were coming with us, Miss Hardbroom,” Ethel said hurriedly. “You’re such a great teacher.”

“No need to compliment me, Ethel.” Hecate cleared her throat. “I shall let you go, now—I am sure you have many more teachers to see.”

Hecate walked to the door, and opened it to relinquish Ethel back to her father. She watched the back of his silver-shot hair as he marched Ethel away, hoping that he would not be as harsh on her in her other interviews, yet feeling powerless to prevent such a thing from happening.

“Miss Hardbroom?”

Hecate was not surprised to see Mildred and a curly-haired woman who she assumed was Mildred’s caregiver, already waiting, but was slightly alarmed by the sight of Mildred perched on her lap.

“Ah—well met, Ms Hubble,” Hecate said to the woman. “Sorry for keeping you waiting.”

Mildred stood up, socks swimming around her ankles and bootlaces trailing on the stone floor as usual. Hecate was shocked that Mildred had not taken the opportunity to tidy herself up a bit; to be so _casual_ about appearing as shabby as that in front of a member of her own family was a horrifying thought. 

“It’s all right—Miss Hardbroom, isn’t it?” Ms Hubble said in a friendly, easy tone that made Hecate feel very ill at ease.

Ms Hubble put her arm around Mildred and rubbed her shoulder fondly. Hecate pursed her lips, witness to an act of affection that was uncomfortable for her to watch. The manner in which Mildred interacted with her mother was so uninhibited and spontaneous that it was almost difficult to process.

“I am she,” Hecate said curtly.

“I’m Julie Hubble—pleased to meet you, finally,” Ms Hubble extended a hand in greeting. “Millie’s been telling me all about you.”

“Mum, witches don’t really shake hands,” Mildred said in a stage-whisper.

Ms Hubble laughed at her mistake and withdrew her hand before Hecate could take it. “Oh, go on, teach me the proper witch way, Millie.”

Mildred made a show of putting her palm on her forehead and bowing. Ms Hubble followed suit, clapping her hand to her head in the same clumsy way that Mildred was wont to do. _The blind leading the blind_, thought Hecate despairingly.

“This is far from necessary,” Hecate remarked. “Witches most certainly do shake hands when it is appropriate.” The temptation to correct Ms Hubble’s crude imitation of the gesture warred with her disapproval of a non-magical person using it in the first place. She extended her hand and Ms Hubble shook it gratefully. 

“Shall we go in?” Hecate suggested, and allowed Mildred and her mother to enter the potions laboratory ahead of her and take their seats.

“So,” Ms Hubble smiled pleasantly, “What’s our Millie been up to?”

Hecate’s eyes flicked between Mildred and her mother. Ms Hubble wore the same appealing look in her eyes that she had often noted in Mildred’s when she hoped that they would not be given any extra homework.

“Mil_dred_ has shown a remarkable lack of control in my potions laboratory. As her form mistress, I have also particularly noted her tardiness and clumsiness, along with a rampant disrespect for school rules and uniform regulations. The number of times I have had to tell her to tie her shoelaces—” Hecate’s eyes trailed over Mildred’s lop-sided tie, and the school badge pinned to her pinafore at a most peculiar angle.

Ms Hubble leaned forward and said in a mock-conspiratorial tone, “What’s she been learning, though? How’s she fitting in? That’s what’s really important, not what her shoelaces are doing.”

Hecate could practically hear Pippa’s voice in her head telling her to _be nice_. She sighed through her nose and gave a comprehensive account of the potions that she usually taught to first-year classes. Gradually, even though she was doing the speaking, she found herself softening in accordance with Ms Hubble’s outwardly empathetic nature, which, after all Mr Hallow’s bluster, was a true relief. 

“During October, while I was off work, we had an issue with a supply witch whose marking was not to Cackle’s standards.” 

Ms Hubble gave a nod of concern. “Oh, I heard about that. Are you better now?”

“I have made a full recovery and am currently returning to full-time teaching,” Hecate responded, bristling at the sympathy she was receiving from a woman she barely knew. “But you may note Mildred’s unfortunately low overall grade for this term, and it is partly due to the supply witch in question.”

“No, I haven’t heard anything about her grades yet,” Ms Hubble shook her head, curls bouncing.

“Did you not receive a report card?” Hecate asked sharply.

Mildred’s mouth twisted in guilt. At Hecate’s pursed lips, she looked down at the table, in clear realisation of the trouble that would be brought down upon her if she did not confess. “I— didn’t want to disappoint you, mum. I got— an E for Potions,” Mildred winced, taking out a folded report card from her pinafore pocket.

“An E!” Ms Hubble squealed. “Oh Mille, I’m sure you tried your best. You don’t need to hide that from me. I’ll be proud of you, whatever letters turn up on that card.”

It was touching—while Hecate would hope that Mildred would one day make her mother proud with academic improvement, she considered the importance of Mildred being encouraged even when she was on track to becoming the worst witch in school records. It would certainly be helpful for her career if she performed better, but having parental support could only improve the girl’s confidence in herself, which Hecate hoped would lead to her wanting to be more conscientious.

“Mildred also shows remarkable loyalty to her close friends, even if that does mean she is often _late_,” Hecate said, flaring her eyes at Mildred. She thought back to how the girl had visited her while she was staying at Westwood—that kindness was owed to Ms Hubble’s influence, she could see now. “But she is a very considerate young witch whose compassion does her credit, and has saved her from an uncommonly large number of occasions where she has had to appear before the headmistress.” 

“That’s Millie for you,” Ms Hubble grinned, giving Mildred’s shoulder a squeeze. “Always caring about others before herself.”

Hecate acknowledged this silently, wishing perhaps that Mildred would care a _little_ more for herself. However, young witches like Ethel Hallow could benefit from taking a leaf out of Mildred’s book. Just—not too many leaves. “Mildred has been a little held back by her patchy knowledge of witching culture, so with your permission, and Mildred’s consent, I have been considering offering her some additional tutoring to bring her up to speed with the rest of the girls.”

“I’d like to catch up,” Mildred said carefully. “But I’ve already got loads of homework.”

“There will be no additional homework,” Hecate assured her. “It will consist of perhaps two sessions a week—more like casual chats than a formal lesson.”

“Doesn’t sound too bad, does it, Millie?” Ms Hubble looked at her daughter, who gave something between a shrug and a nod in response. “And we’ve got that lovely camping trip to look forward to, too.” She turned to Hecate. “I’m coming along to help out, so you’ll be seeing a lot more of me soon.”

“Unfortunately, I shall not be in attendance,” she said airily. “I have a lot of work to be doing.”

“Make sure you get some rest too. All work and no play, right, Miss Hardbroom?” Ms Hubble said with a wink.

Hecate stiffened at Ms Hubble’s apparent need to pry into every aspect of her personal life. “I think we have covered everything,” she said, rising, and walked the Hubbles out before any more uncomfortable exchanges could take place. 

Fortunately, while Ethel’s appointment had run over into Mildred’s by a few minutes, there was a break scheduled, and the only time any of them had lost was the break, which Hecate did not believe she required. Hecate stalked ahead, with Ms Hubble and her daughter in her wake.

“Sounds like you’re settling in really well, Millie-love. Making lots of friends,” Ms Hubble said, hugging her daughter close as they approached the top of the staircase to the Entrance Hall. They were indeed a little late; the sounds of talking rose up from below.

Out of the corner of Hecate’s eye, she glimpsed of something at the end of the far corridor. A body—shifting just out of sight—their cloak whirling around them in their rush.

“Wait here a moment,” Hecate said, putting her arm out to stop Ms Hubble from proceeding further.

Perhaps her eyes had been deceiving her. Shadows could flicker all the time, particularly with the cold November winds whipping down the corridors and disturbing all the torches.

Hecate transferred to the far end of the corridor. As her vision resolved, she could see no trace of the figure from before—merely an empty passage before her that led to the east tower. 

“Who’s there?”

The words resounded in the silence. Hecate frowned, feeling foolish. It was most likely that it had simply been a trick of the light.

* * *

“I think that went rather well, don’t you think, Hecate?” Ada said at the end of the night. It was late; the girls had all seen their parents off by now and were back in their dormitories, hopefully not too worse for wear after Parents’ Evening.

“It could have gone worse,” Hecate sighed. Having to explain over about the grading and Miss Darkside had worn her down. “And thanks to Mr Hallow, I am to spend my Half Term break re-marking Miss Darkside’s homework in full.”

“Oh, Hecate!” Ada looked shocked. “How awful for you— there must be _hundreds_ to redo with the amount of homework she set! Can’t anyone help?”

“I know my marking scheme better than any,” Hecate sighed, resigned to her fate. “And I had intended to do it in time for the end-of-year examinations in the Summer Term. But he threatened to break our tenure, Ada.”

Ada shook her head sadly. “That man is a bully. I’m astonished Esmerelda Hallow has turned out so kind and tolerant.”

Hecate agreed. “Her poor sister, though. It seems that for Mr Hallow, Ethel will never live up to the standard that Esmerelda has set.”

“Indeed,” Ada said grimly. “We can but do our best, Hecate, and rise above all of this.”

* * *

On Sunday morning, the castle was a bustle of energy as the girls and staff prepared for their camping trip. Miss Drill was briefing the heads of year on the responsibility of distributing camping gear, showing them all the various components that made up each girl’s kit and enlisting their help in ensuring all the inventory was accounted for.

The girls had been grouped into threes or fours, each sharing the burden of carrying the tents (magically crafted to spring open when you said the command word), cooking cauldrons, spell cauldrons (to be kept separate from the cauldrons they cooked their food in), camping kettles (to be used to heating water for spells or cooking, or for hot chocolate to warm up during the chilly nights), utensils (labelled as to which ones should be used for potions and which for their food), botany kits (for identifying, measuring, and gathering herbs that they would use in their spells and cooking), and crockery that they would use in their groups. 

Hecate had also heard Miss Drill speaking about bringing along some tents from the Ordinary world for a ‘fun’ challenge, though she could hardly imagine what could be fun about wrestling with tent poles and shiny synthetic fabric in garish colours. Hecate could think of nothing more dull than being made to participate in such an activity. 

The Cackle’s tents, as Miss Cackle had demonstrated in an assembly last week, with the assistance of Miss Drill, were in regulation school colours—black with thin grey stripes—and were made of a lightweight natural woven fabric that they would be imbuing with water repelling and insulation spells to keep warm. These sorts of spells had the tendency to wear off after a while, so it was best to cast them daily when they were needed most. 

This was only the beginning of the magical survival skills instruction the girls had received. That past week leading up to Parents’ Evening and the school trip, Hecate and Miss Nightscribe had been teaching potions geared towards first aid, finding one’s way, and potions that can be made with simple ingredients and a pared-down set of equipment.

Hecate knew that the other staff members had been teaching similarly useful skills. Miss Bat had been livening up her Chanting lessons by making the girls learn new chants that they might sing around campfires for warmth, protection, keeping the fire burning bright, and a few extras about warty toads ‘just in case the mood should strike’.

Miss Tapioca had even given a workshop on basic cookery, and each day had allowed one yeargroup into the school kitchens to teach them a few basic recipes, grumpily correcting ‘sloppy stirring’ and ‘overuse of flavour’ in her usual ornery manner. She had offered to come along to act as the camp’s cook, but Miss Cackle had encouraged her to spend the Half Term at home to have a well-earned rest. The experience of cooking outdoors was one that Miss Cackle thought important that the girls have—and she herself had told Hecate that she was looking forward to making some of her favourite cauldron stews.

For many of the girls, this would be their first venture into living in the great outdoors. The girls were often taken out for wild foraging on the mountain in the gloomy forests, but they did not usually sleep overnight beneath the stars. Ada always spoke enthusiastically of the school’s camping holidays to Hecate, who quietly thanked her good fortune of being confined to the grounds of Cackle’s so she would not have to partake in such an activity.

A few years back, Ada had proposed holding it on the mountain somewhere so that Hecate could join in, but Hecate had politely encouraged her not to take away from the prospect of exploring parts of Britain that the girls might not have visited before, especially since the camping trips usually took place near sites of particular magical interest where the connection to the arcane was stronger. It was vital that the young witches had the opportunity to exist, to _be_ amongst the many wonders of witching history, where their ancestors had held their coven meetings.

In a way, Hecate thought she would not detest at the very least some aspects of the camping holidays. The idea of being able to tap into natural magics and celebrate the solemnity of the moon was very appealing. She had always wondered what it would be like to gather with a coven of like-minded witches outdoors—not as a teacher, but simply as a witch—letting their chants echo into the endless night sky, and their magic resound in the power of the full moon.

Theoretically, being at one with nature as generations of her witching foremothers had done before her was a tradition that Hecate dearly wished she could share; the November dampness and stiff back from sleeping on the floor she could do without. She also considered that having to control and provide entertainment for a large volume of children would be incredibly tiresome. It was fortunate that a dedicated number of parents had volunteered to accompany the girls on the trip so that the groups could be managed much more efficiently.

Hecate would have to be satisfied with being alone—a prospect that she was not regarding as a negative one. Having the halls be void of chaos was something she rather enjoyed. Not having to monitor the halls after dark to bring retribution upon any students who dared host night-time parties in their dormitories, nor having to remind the hyper-studious—or, more likely, the procrastinators—that after midnight was _not_ the time to be researching the history of toad usage in the craft, would allow her to enjoy restful evenings by her fire with Morgana and the latest research from the Cauldron Review. She might even permit herself the luxury of an early night, which were in such short supply for her these days.

“I do hope you have a pleasant time, Hecate,” said Ada as they stood waiting for the girls to assemble in lines on the courtyard lawn, broomsticks laden with large packs and cat baskets. The parents had already arrived; Hecate recognised the blonde curly hair of Julie Hubble amongst them, stood by Miss Drill. She supposed that they would be sharing a broomstick for the journey, since Ms Hubble’s profoundly Ordinary background meant that she could not fly a broomstick, nor indeed perform any task that would be of any use when magic could accomplish these with ease. Hecate questioned the logic of allowing her on the school trip, but clearly Ms Hubble was eager. She was animatedly speaking with Miss Drill while waving to her daughter stood in line with her classmates.

“I shall attempt to enjoy re-marking all of Miss Darkside’s homework in time for your return,” Hecate stated. “It will be an undertaking, but I am certain that the parents will be mollified. I will also, of course, send out the amended report cards by broomstick courier.”

“Oh Hecate, I value your meticulousness so much. But do remember to relax, my dear. You will not be entirely alone, though,” Ada replied.

“Oh?” Ada’s words were the first she had heard of this.

Ada smiled. “Miss Nightscribe will be remaining behind. She has a conference to attend partway through the week.” 

Hecate tried to keep the disappointment from her expression. She had been anticipating spending as much time as possible alone, working through the vast quantity of marking while anxiously anticipating Pippa’s arrival—whenever she decided that she wanted to visit—with mingled dread and guilty yearning. With Miss Nightscribe there, she could look forward to the delights afforded by shared meal times, awkward small talk, and Miss Nightscribe’s often irritating need for validation with her teaching performance—all of which would give her no time to dwell on Pippa Pentangle and how she was to behave towards her in such a way that was healthy for the both of them.

“I suppose she has a lot of preparation to keep her busy,” Hecate muttered, hoping rather than supposing.

“I’m sure she’ll keep out of your hair,” Ada remarked intuitively.

With all the students accounted for, the parents and staff readied themselves for takeoff. Hecate did not envy them the flight—it was looking to be an extremely cold day for flying, and the condensation from the clouds could often freeze a broom’s tail in such conditions.

Hecate watched them as they rose into the air—despairing over some of the girls’ wobbly broomstick posture—and begin to sail off into the misty morning in staggered groups. Ada was with the tail end; Hecate nodded a stiff goodbye to her headmistress, before heading back in through the robust oak doors to the relative warmth of the castle.

* * *

The castle had fallen silent—suits of armour showing merely her own strangely elongated reflection travelling across the curves of their shining steel plates as she walked by—old oil paintings of witches watching down from centuries past with their eyes beady, hands casting over crystal balls, clutching the potions for which they received their reknown—the flagstones beneath her feet receiving no foot but her own. 

Miss Nightscribe must have been in the library, for Hecate had not seen her that morning. She had no desire to spend any more time with her than necessary, so it suited her well not to see her.

Before Hecate had barely had a moment to sit down in her chambers on the morning of the school’s departure, she received a mirror call from Pippa. It was not unexpected that Pippa should call her to arrange her visit, but the timing of the call was peculiarly accurate.

“Good morning, Hecate,” Pippa said brightly. “I take it that everyone’s left already?”

“Only just,” Hecate replied, bemused by Pippa’s very well-informed knowledge. “How did you know?”

“Just a little divining magic that I like to call—happening to spy a flock of witches flying south from Cackle’s from my bedroom window,” she laughed. “So you’re alone now in that big old castle.”

“I am afraid that I am not wholly alone. Miss Nightscribe is also here.”

“Oh,” said Pippa, disappointment evident in her voice. “I rather thought we’d have the run of the place to ourselves.”

“It is a large enough castle,” Hecate said, silently agreeing with Pippa. “Even with a full complement of students and staff, there are corridors one can take and not be disturbed by a single soul. She has a conference, for which she will be leaving in three days’ time.”

“I can’t wait that long,” Pippa groaned. “I’ve been really looking forward to coming to visit. You don’t mind if I stay overnight, do you? It’ll just be like when we were at school.”

“I’ll have a room made up for you in the teachers’ wing,” Hecate said, with some circumspection. Were it to be _just_ like when they were at Cackle’s as girls, they would have been sharing a room, as they often dared to do. 

“So I’ll see you tomorrow, then? Or— is tonight too soon?”

“Tomorrow would be preferable,” Hecate returned quickly. “I have a great deal of marking to do.”

“Tomorrow then,” Pippa smiled, and ended the call.

Hecate exhaled heavily as the mirror showed her own face once more. Had she a say in the matter, she would have liked to have completed all the marking before Pippa descended upon her and absorbed all her time. 

When Pippa had lived with her for that brief time at Westwood Lodge, the circumstances had been different—Pippa had been acting as her healer. Hecate’s awareness of Pippa still hurting because of her made the situation much more difficult. Now she was visiting because she _wanted_ to. Hecate was still trying to process the fact that Pippa had said that she could not wait a few more days for Miss Nightscribe to leave—her _disappointment_ that they would not have the castle to themselves.

Hecate felt the only way she felt she could cope with Pippa being _here_ was to not view it as Pippa returning to Cackle’s as a social call, but as Miss Pentangle stopping by at Cackle’s as a visiting headmistress from another magical institution. 

The first order of the day would be to make up Pippa’s room, so she could dedicate the rest of her time to diligent work without it weighing on her mind. Hecate’s chambers could be accessed by the door at the far end of the corridor; the door next to hers did indeed lead to a spare room that they used for storage, but it did not have an ensuite bathroom as Hecate’s did, and was tiny, being on the corner of the turret. The other option was the room opposite Miss Nightscribe’s. It would have to do.

Hecate entered the room to see what she could make of it. It had a single bed, a desk with a mirror, a chest of drawers, and an empty hearth. The air felt dampened by a feel of disuse, as it often did in the spare classrooms of the castle. She started a fire in the hearth to warm it up somewhat; even though Pippa would be arriving tomorrow, the fire would also dispel the lingering dampness that would be unpleasant if left to cling to the clean sheets and furniture she was to transfer in. After giving the room and its bathroom a good clean with some useful household spells, she evaluated what she could change to make it homely without taking up too much of her time. Hecate was struck by the thought that she was making a room up for Pippa in a similar way to how Pippa had prepared Westwood Lodge for her use. Hecate did not have the time nor the eye for beautification that Pippa did.

The single bed was exactly like the girls’ dormitory beds; that was the first thing to be altered. With a wave of her hand, it stretched into a wider mattress, and from the basic iron frame grew an elegantly carved wooden headboard. She transferred a duvet and far more pillows than she thought necessary from the laundry room, before dressing them in a set of navy and black embroidered bed linen from her closet, grateful for her magic that was easing the workload for her so that she would not have to physically traipse down the corridor or to the laundry room halfway across the castle to retrieve everything manually. 

She also transferred a set of her own towels from her room and placed them in a neat folded pile on the bed. They were much softer than the stiff grey towels that the girls had to use that held the shape of whatever they had been dried upon, and had a rich Tyrian purple hue that would best honour the colour of the Pentangle’s uniform, but different enough a colour that Pippa would not feel as though she were at her own school. 

Next, she transfigured the chest of drawers into a proper wardrobe with hanging space as well as a few drawers, since she was certain Pippa would require both. The mirror received an extra polish, and Hecate conjured a candlestick with beeswax candles for the desk, along with a more comfortable chair. The fireplace also required a seat, in case Pippa might want to read by the fire, so a plush armchair completed the picture. 

For the bathroom, Hecate made certain that it was well-stocked with the necessities. Had she had more time to prepare, Hecate might have made up a fresh batch of such products in her cauldron—but there was so little time, so instead, she had raided her own bathroom cupboard for some unopened cleansing and conditioning products that she hope would suit Pippa’s hair and skin type, and some moisturising hand soap for the sink.

She glanced about the raw stone walls of the bedroom, with Pippa’s comments from the other day regarding her own room looking ‘like a dungeon’ chasing around her head. She wondered if there was any way she could make it appear less grim and more Pippa. Yet, this was how most rooms in the castle looked. Pippa was here to visit the Cackle’s of her youth, not a mirror image of Pentangle’s. As long as it was warm enough and hospitable, it would suffice.

As a last thought, Hecate also put a disc of wax in an oil burner ready to light tomorrow morning, along with a bottle of an essential oil blend that reminded Hecate of Pippa. She knew her aim was to think about this professionally, but—it seemed like an innocuous enough, yet personal touch. She was merely accommodating Pippa’s preferences, as a friend might. That was all there was to it.

With that, Hecate felt that more than enough time had been spent on the room. She transferred herself directly to her office and plunged herself into making her way through the re-marking of Miss Darkside’s homework.

* * *

The next day arrived too quickly. Hecate felt like she had been preparing for this day for decades; yet despite the amount of mental preparation, now that it was finally coming to pass, she could find that she had no idea how to act or behave. The time they had spent at Westwood, when Hecate had almost started to feel natural, if still exhilarated, by Pippa’s presence, seemed a distant and untouchable memory.

Hecate checked over Pippa’s room carefully to make sure everything would be in order for when she arrived. Pippa was not due until eleven, which gave Hecate plenty of time to overthink every aspect of the room—what she would say—what she would offer her for lunch. She lit the tea light in oil burner and put half of a pipette of the essential oil onto the wax disc, so the oil and wax would mingle together as they heated.

After a while of dithering, Hecate decided she was being completely ridiculous, and set herself to the task of resuming the re-marking of the homework. She had worked through about a third of them yesterday, working solidly throughout the day and only surfacing for meagre meals and to refresh her tea pot.

The process was slightly more cumbersome than simply marking fresh homework. For fairness, she had been magically expunging the annotations in Miss Darkside’s cramped handwriting on each essay with a few shakes from an aspergillum filled with a potion Hecate had devised to erase marks made by Miss Darkside’s quill. The aspergillum had been a thoughtful gift from Ada many years ago—its handle was silver with an ebony inlay. It was an instrument she often used in cleansing rituals, but useful also in this purpose where only a sprinkling of potion was necessary and many essays to treat. She rested the spherical perforated head end in a small cauldron of the potion between uses so that the potion could gather in the holes once more.

A knock came at the door, followed by a small voice. “Miss— Hardbroom?”

“Enter.” The door creaked open a touch, and Hecate looked up to see Miss Nightscribe’s head popping around the door. “Miss Nightscribe. What is it? I am frightfully busy.”

Miss Nightscribe cleared her throat. “I’m ever so sorry to disturb you, but Miss Pentangle is here.”

“Pippa,” Hecate whispered to herself in shock. _She is early_. “Very well. I shall go down to meet her.”

“No, I mean—” Miss Nightscribe began, before the door opened fully, and to Hecate’s utter mortification, a vision in pink brushed past the librarian, whom Hecate now saw was carrying Pepper’s cat basket. Hecate rose to her feet. She had not even had a chance to retouch her lipstick.

“Hecate— I’m sorry I’m surprising you early like this,” Pippa began, dropping her bags and walking over to the desk. Her eyes found the stack in Hecate’s in-tray. 

“Wow, you’ve really got a _lot_ of marking here. Oh no— these are already marked,” Pippa said, seeing the comments. “But— this isn’t your handwriting.”

“They were marked by the supply witch. I am re-marking them. They were not done to my standard,” Hecate explained briskly. Her heart had started to hammer in her chest in a delayed panic response. “There were some complaints made at Parents’ Evening.”

“Oh, Hecate, there must be hundreds of pieces of homework here—” Pippa said in dismay, thumbing the edge of the stack.

“Four weeks’ worth of Potions homework from seventy-five girls. Now you see why I was reluctant to have you yesterday.”

“Let me make it up to you— I’ll take some and we’ll mark them together,” Pippa said gently, her warm brown eyes meeting Hecate’s across the desk.

Hecate was lost for words; she did not know whether to accept Pippa’s offer. This was her duty—her responsibility to her students. 

“I know you—if I don’t help you, you’ll work all through the night and run on Wide-Awake Potions for the whole time I’m here, and I don’t want that.”

She felt as though she were swaying on the spot. It was as though Pippa could see right through her.

“I’ll just— go—” Miss Nightscribe said from the doorway.

Hecate’s eyes widened as she realised that Miss Nightscribe had been standing there the entire time.

“Please, Hecate? Just say you’ll let me.”

“Yes,” Hecate agreed quietly, not wishing to unnecessarily draw out the awkwardness of the situation. “But first, I will show you to your room.”

Pippa stepped into Hecate’s way as she attempted to leave. Hecate stopped abruptly, confusion written on her face.

“Hecate—” Pippa threw her arms around her. Hecate stiffly allowed herself to be hugged. The last time they had hugged, they had shared an emotional moment, but this time Hecate was aware of needing to keeping her feelings platonic, for Pippa’s happiness. Pippa broke away.

“We should transfer your bags upstairs,” Hecate said evenly, trying not to react to the fact that Pippa Pentangle was here, early, and had hugged her.

“Yes, of course,” Pippa said, her expression a puzzle to Hecate.

* * *

Pippa entered the room, looking around with a delighted twinkle in her eye. “A bit fancier than my old dorm room,” she laughed. She let Pepper out of the basket, and he immediately started circling the room, bunting his square head against the bed post and the leg of the armchair. Hecate watched Pippa as she removed her cloak and hat. Her blonde hair was styled in a simple low chignon, and she was wearing a calf-length pink skirt, and a white blouse with a simple white bow cascading down her chest.

“I hope it is to your liking. If you need anything, I will be happy to oblige,” Hecate said mutely, glancing over the bed and the simple furniture and feeling as though she really should have put more glamour into it. 

“It’s lovely—just like Cackle’s ought to be,” Pippa said, and Hecate eyed the tealight in the oil burner, hoping the scent she had chosen was inoffensive enough. “So who is Miss Nightscribe? She seems—shy.”

Hecate’s hand traced up her nape to make sure she had no stray pieces of hair coming loose from her bun; anxiety was setting in as she worried over whether Pippa was being truthful about the room. “She’s our librarian. She has been assisting with my phased return since our supply witch had to— leave.”

“She’s awfully taken by you, you realise,” Pippa smiled secretively. 

Hecate sighed. “I thought she was past this, but if it is obvious even to you—”

“She could hardly say your name when she opened the door for me. And I don’t supposed the feeling’s mutual,” Pippa gave her a teasing wink.

Hecate looked scandalised. “It most certainly is not. Even if I did not make it a principle not to romantically involve myself with colleagues, she is at least ten years my junior.”

“Poor thing. Perhaps I should set her up with one of my staff. I think Mercy Whistlemoon is around that age.”

Hecate’s hands knitted together. She was not sure of the appropriate thing to say to this. Pippa opened up one of her bags and sifted through it for something, pulling out a cardigan as she did so.

“Do you know what I’ve done? I’ve forgotten my hairbrush,” Pippa groaned as she shrugged into the cardigan. Pepper nosed the open bag and tried to fit himself inside, but Pippa lifted him out and put him on the bed. “You don’t happen to have a spare?”

Hecate nodded. “Come with me.”

Pippa accompanied Hecate out, and her heels clacked down the corridor as she ran her hands over the door handles. “Which of these is you, then?”

“The far end,” Hecate indicated the door. 

Pippa approached the door; Hecate, who was following behind her, could not tell her expression as she walked. She waited by the door to allow Hecate to open it.

As soon as Pippa took her first steps into her chambers, Morgana leapt off the chair by the fire and rubbed her body against her, coiling her tail around her leg.

“Oh, hello, Morgana,” Pippa said, bending at the knee and stroking her head. Morgana pushed her head against Pippa’s knuckles possessively, and blessing her with a single lick of her rough tongue.

“She missed you,” Hecate said.

“Did she?” Pippa paused her fussing of Morgana to look up at Hecate.

The room felt so still when their eyes connected that Hecate thought someone had cast a time-slowing spell upon them. She felt her breath falter in her chest. “Yes.”

Pippa turned towards the window, and her face glowed in the pale grey diffused light. As Hecate went to the dressing table in her bedroom to find a hairbrush for Pippa, in the mirror, Hecate watched Pippa’s eyes fall upon the cane beside her bureau. Her delicate fingers trailed over the silver raven’s head handle where Hecate’s hand had rested so many times.

“You know, I got quite used to seeing you with your cane,” Pippa called through to the other room, her voice a soft, slightly shaky timbre.

Hecate returned to her sitting room and set the hairbrush down on the bureau. “I had become quite used to using it.”

“It’s a relief that you don’t need it any more, but—” Pippa picked the cane up from where it rested, holding it just below the handle and turned to face Hecate, twisting her mouth in a reluctant smile. “It added to your image.”

The air felt thick, even though a breeze was stealing in from the window. She curled her fingers around the cane, running a finger over the metal handle that was still warm from Pippa’s hands. “I resented relying upon it in the beginning, but I grew accustomed to its presence. It was a comfort, in the end.” 

They were so close—linked by the cane that Pippa was still holding, absent-mindedly. Pippa shook herself from her daze and released the cane to Hecate, who put it back where it belonged. “It is likely I will have need of it again one day. But for me it represents a part of my life that is over now.”

Pippa searched Hecate’s face, a sadness crystallising in her eye for a moment, before she blinked it away. 

“Would you like some tea?” Hecate asked.

“I think I’ll do a bit of unpacking,” Pippa responded, turning towards the door.

“Don’t forget this,” Hecate quickly retrieved the hairbrush and handed it to Pippa.

“Thank you.”

“I will be in my office when you are finished.”

* * *

Pippa took so long in unpacking that Hecate wondered if she had said something to upset her.

Morgana had pawed at Hecate’s skirts as soon as she made to transfer back to her office, so she scooped up the cat, who flailed indignantly in the air until Hecate held her securely against her chest.

Hecate now sat at her desk, Morgana curled up in her lap as she shook the aspergillum over the next essay, watching as Miss Darkside’s handwriting vanished into clean circles that rippled out from each droplet of potion. 

As she waited for the spell to take full effect, pink particles suddenly swirled about the room, and coalesced into the form of Pippa. 

“It’s such a long way to walk down here that I thought I would just transfer,” Pippa explained to a mildly shocked Hecate, aspergillum held aloft in her hand. “What are you doing?” 

Hecate collected herself. “I am— vanishing Miss Darkside’s handwriting from this essay.” She put down the aspergillum, but it was in Pippa’s hand before she could say ‘widdershins’.

“What’s this?”

“A tool of the craft,” Hecate explained. “It is an aspergillum, for sprinkling small amounts of potion.”

“So you just— shake it?” Pippa said, accidentally flicking it in her hand and sending a shower of potion over Hecate.

“Fortunately, the potion was brewed to only vanish words written by Miss Darkside’s quill,” Hecate said, trying to maintain the last shreds of her dignity as she wiped a mist of palest blue potion from her face. “Or else you would have vanished me—and then you would really be in trouble.”

Pippa stifled a giggle. “Oh Hecate, I’m so sorry. I’ll be more careful.” Pippa put the aspergillum back in its bowl gingerly, and took a glasses case from her bag, from which she withdrew a pair of transparent purple reading glasses and put them on.

Warmth rose to Hecate’s cheeks. She had never seen Pippa Pentangle in _reading glasses_ before, nor she could have ever foreseen the effect that Pippa Pentangle in reading glasses would have on her.

“Please let me mark some, Hecate,” Pippa asked, looking over her glasses at Hecate.

“Very well, then,” Hecate swallowed, unsure if she could ever say “no” to Pippa while she was wearing those glasses, and handed her the large stack of work from the Third Years. “You do not have to mark all of these, but it would help a great deal.” She also conjured a copy of her marking scheme. “Please use this as a guideline and keep comments to the bare minimum, since we are on such a tight schedule.”

Pippa nodded, and began in earnest, this time using the aspergillum with precision, and even using Hecate’s favoured ink colour. Working now was incredibly _distracting_—not least because just across her desk, Pippa had a serious expression of pure concentration, which Hecate against her better judgment found utterly adorable—but also because she knew Pippa could only really concentrate that intently on something that was of particular importance to her.

* * *

After they had spent an hour marking, which seemed to pass exceedingly slowly, Pippa suggested that they break for lunch and a refreshing walk about the castle. Hecate, who had already prepared a variety of sandwiches—avocado and cream cheese, roasted vegetable and houmous, and egg mayonnaise—earlier that morning, sealed with a freshness charm, agreed that it was a wise decision. She had been so distracted by the sight of Pippa in those glasses that her whole body untensed when she finally took them off.

A bitterly cold rain was lashing down outside, so they ate in the cloisters overlooking an overgrown courtyard with an ancient crumbling fountain at its centre. The fountain no longer worked, but one could still identify the figure of Boudica releasing a hare from her cape as she cast a divination spell to foresee the tide of battle against the Romans. The great war goddess Andraste, whose name Boudica cried in her rousing speech to the Iceni, the Trinovantes, and her army of one-hundred-and-twenty-thousand to crush the Roman occupation of Britain, stood beside her, entwined in stone swirls representing Boudica’s powerful magic, and brandishing a spear. Crude with age as she was, the fountain still bore Boudica’s wild mass of hair falling to her hips and her towering stature, as well as the hare fleeing from her cape. As they ate, Hecate recounted tales of Boudica’s dramatic history and downfall to Pippa. She was not sure if Pippa was absorbing the story, but it gave her a neutral topic with which she could avoid acknowledging any of her feelings.

“So,” Hecate started, having exhausted all she knew on the topic of Boudica, “is there any part of the castle you wish to revisit? I know you have been here a few times briefly, but not for leisure.”

“I’d love to see your room again,” Pippa said, pausing with half of a sandwich in her hand.

Hecate started. “My— room? You have seen my chambers in the teachers’ wing.”

“No, Hecate, your old room. The one you had as a student.”

Hecate felt awkward denying Pippa this one indulgence, but a large inconvenience presented itself in the fact that it was now Mildred Hubble’s room.

“It belongs to a student now. It will be possible to view, but I warn you that it may be in a state of some cataclysmic mess, knowing as I do to whom it now belongs.”

Pippa laughed. “I’m sure it can’t be all that bad.”

Hecate arched her eyebrow wryly. Pippa clearly did not know Mildred Hubble.

After finishing their lunch, they took the long way to the students’ dormitories, Pippa admiring all the old familiar sights. It took a little while longer because Pippa wanted to peek inside all of the classrooms. Hecate reminded her not to get too distracted—that there would be plenty of time for that throughout the week.

Mildred’s room looked, predictably, as though a bomb had hit it. A cascade of clothing was spilling from in the half-closed wardrobe door—there were several odd brightly-coloured striped socks hanging from the hot water pipe that ran through the room—the bed was not made, and the sheet, instead of being tucked neatly at the corners, was stuffed under the mattress in a bunch of creased cotton and coming loose at the other end—and an assortment of loose sheets of paper surrounded the desk on the floor. Hecate could identify several as coming from her own lessons, and wondered why Mildred had not filed these away for safe-keeping—and indeed why Mildred had not taken care with any part of her room.

The bed linen was meant to have been stripped and sent down to the laundry room while the girls were on holiday, so there was no sense in neatening that—Hecate twirled a finger and transferred it down, leaving the duvet folded and the pillows stacked neatly in the centre of the bed. 

“It’s so— different,” Pippa said, her voice faltering. “But somehow the same.”

“I have seen it change ownership five times,” Hecate lied. They had, in fact, at Hecate’s request, used it as storage until this year, and Mildred Hubble was the first student to use it since she had. “It does not have the association for me now,” Hecate added. Another lie. She had deep associations with every part of the room—the hot water pipe that Morgana would sit on—every angle of the ceiling that she would stare up into on nights when she would lie restless, thinking about Mistress Broomhead’s manipulations—the dressing table where she had put her hair up so many times, smoothing every last strand until it was perfectly inoffensive.

“Five times!” Pippa said, surprised. “It’s still a shock to me that you’ve been working here that long, even though I know. I mean, it took me the best part of a decade to set up Pentangle’s, and I travelled— Did you never want to leave Cackle’s for a bit, see more of the world?”

“I could not,” Hecate said darkly. Either it was ambiguous enough an answer that Pippa did not feel the need to follow it up with more lines of enquiry, or the memory of the room had quietened her usual effusiveness.

Hecate swept her hand before her in a wide circle, and a web of illusion magic cast its strings across the walls; Mildred’s pinned-up drawings faded from view, to be replaced by raw stone. The bed was so impossibly neat that it looked like it had never once been slept in, with crisp hospital corners and nothing at all skulking beneath it. The odd socks, scattered papers, and clothing stuck in the wardrobe door had vanished. An aggressively tidy desk, the precisely lined-up stack of library books on her bedside table, and a needle book of hairpins on the dressing table—these were the few indications that this had been the room of a young Hecate Hardbroom.

“Oh, Hecate—” Pippa’s eyes filled with tears. “This is how your room looked the first time I came into it.”

“At the start of our second year,” Hecate muttered. She could place the exact moment, for it had been the first term after she had been met Mistress Broomhead—after she had submitted to that woman’s cruel tyranny.

Pippa gave a flourish. Only a few things changed, but they transformed the room entirely. A few drawings appeared on the wall, a non-school regulation pink hair tie on the desk, along with a pink notebook, and a little tin box in the shape of a frog—one of their in-jokes at the time—full of keepsakes from Pippa.

Hecate stepped forwards, hesitantly, towards the notebook, which was open. It was filled with notes that they would write to each other during lessons—mostly Pippa’s notes to Hecate, since Hecate was stubbornly trying to pay attention—

“It’s been such a long time since it was just the two of us, here.”

Hecate tore her eyes away from the page to see Pippa, wistful, her hand on her heart. “This is how I remember it best, but—with you at your desk, always hard at work.”

Hecate stared at the childish things she once cherished, and her eyes filled with tears to think that she had thrown away and forgotten so many of the things that meant the most to her. “You would barge in and sprawl over my bed to do your homework.”

“Until I got bored and demanded you came over for a cuddle,” Pippa smiled, biting her lip.

That was, in part, why Hecate had always been diligently hard at work, trying to finish before Pippa inevitably distracted her. For a time, she had not been able to work with Pippa in the room at all—before they had confessed their feelings for each other.

“Strange how things can move on,” Hecate said, dropping the illusion spell and returning the room to its chaos. She knew she was breaking the moment, painful though it was to do for her—to whom every part of this memory had been powerfully significant.

“Sometimes I think they—” Pippa started, but stopped herself. “Well, we had better get back to our marking,” she said in a much brighter voice.

* * *

They worked in the silence and gloom of Hecate’s office for some time, until their rhythm aligned and they both happened put their hand on the aspergillum at the same time. Pippa’s hand was underneath Hecate’s own. Hecate blushed.

“You go,” Pippa said.

“No, I believe you reached for it first,” Hecate insisted. Her hand was still resting on Pippa’s—she withdrew it quickly, as if stung.

Once they had both had a chance to use the aspergillum, Pippa spoke up. “Do you mind if we— light a candle? It’s a little dark in here.”

“Of course,” Hecate said, taking a fresh candle from a drawer and putting it into the candlestick on her desk, clicking her fingers to ignite it.

The tension between them eased again as they relaxed into a comfortable exchange of comments about the topics they were each reading, with Pippa occasionally asking Hecate to decipher a student’s illegible handwriting.

Later, they descended to the kitchens, where Hecate put on a white apron over her dress and asked Pippa what she wanted for dinner. Pippa was indecisive, but said yes to a glass of wine from a bottle of Verdicchio that Hecate had been given as a gift a while ago. Hecate felt Pippa observing her as she went between the various pans on the stove, while Pippa herself sat poised on a stool, hand elegantly wrapped around the stem of the glass. 

Finally, Hecate took off her apron to settle down with Pippa to a sumptuous meal of pasta all’arrabbiata with garlic bread, pouring herself some wine and recharging Pippa’s glass.

“We made it through a lot of the marking today,” Pippa smiled.

“We did,” Hecate replied, feeling the effects of the wine on her tired mind. “You rather cut my work in half.”

“I’m happy to have been useful to you.” Pippa raised her eyebrows teasingly.

“Pippa—I do not mean to make your stay here dull,” Hecate said hastily. “You need not continue helping me if there are things that would interest you to see in the castle.”

“The thing that interests me most in the castle is you, Hecate.”

Hecate blushed. Perhaps the wine had gone to Pippa’s head—but she had never appeared to be affected greatly on the occasions when they had had sherry. To cover her embarrassment, Hecate collected their plates and cast a hasty washing up spell on the dishes.

“Shall we retire upstairs?” she suggested. “Would you like to bring the bottle?”

Pippa eyed the bottle of Verdicchio temptingly. “We should, and I think I’d prefer a cosy cup of tea if I’m being really honest with myself. I need a restful night’s sleep.”

“A good idea,” Hecate commented, relieved that she would be spared battling against her own loose tongue, which would become more difficult if they finished off the bottle. Being a teacher at a boarding school who made it a point to never drink when she was responsible for the safety of her students, Hecate had never had much chance to develop any sort of tolerance to alcohol. She put the bottle into the cold storage cupboard.

They transferred upstairs with a tea pot of boiling water, to which Hecate added a relaxing bedtime infusion, and reignited the fire.

“You’ve only one armchair,” Pippa said.

“I had never realised the inconvenience of that,” Hecate replied truthfully. “I am either sat in the armchair, or Morgana is—in which case I take the chair at the bureau.”

Pippa shook her head incredulously, and transferred the armchair from her room in opposite it. It did not by any stretch of the imagination match the rest of Hecate’s sombre decor, but neither did Pippa in her pink cardigan. A round coiled Pepper was sitting in the new armchair, who jumped out to lick himself closer to the fire.

They took their respective seats, and Hecate poured the tea. The aroma of the tea was quite soporific after the wine and the day they had had. Morgana padded up to Pippa’s chair and shuffled her weight from paw to paw until Pippa took her tea cup out of her lap to let her jump up.

“It’s so nice to be back here. In a way I wish I could work here, but I love Pentangle’s too much,” Pippa said, stroking Morgana idly.

“You have devoted your life to making it a special place of learning,” Hecate said, sipping her tea to avoid eye contact.

“Do come and visit me there, won’t you?” 

Morgana hopped out of Pippa’s lap to investigate Pepper, who uncharacteristically spurned her, sending her towards Hecate’s chair. Hecate reached down to stroke Morgana’s long fur, where Pippa had been touching her moments before. “Someday, I hope.”

“Pepper, you silly boy, come here,” Pippa said, picking up the stocky cat and putting him in her lap. “Don’t be mean to Morgana. We’re guests here.”

When the tea in the pot had dried up, and Pippa’s conversation given way to yawns, Hecate suggested that they turn in. Pippa agreed, and hoisted Pepper up to her shoulder.

“Good night, Pippa,” Hecate muttered as they stood awkwardly in the doorway.

Pippa smiled sleepily. “Good night, Hecate. See you in the morning.”

Hecate closed the door gently to the sight of Pippa retreating down the corridor, and leaned her back against it, sighing heavily.

* * *

The following day saw Hecate rise early, to the sound of Morgana yowling at her. Hecate checked the time. It was four in the morning. It was not when Hecate had planned to wake up, but she could not find restfulness again. Her mental connection to Morgana told her that nothing was wrong—she was just hungry. She had been planning to wake early either way—this was simply earlier than would have liked to have been roused from sleep.

Hecate found her pocket watch on her bedside table and wound it, as she did every morning, before performing her necessary ablutions. Morgana was following her around like a tiny ghost as she dressed herself, in her favourite dress—the one that Ada had had repaired. Her hair was still wet and loose in heavy curls from the shower as she went to give Morgana a pouch of wet food, dangling in long spiralling tendrils over the towel around her neck as she filled the bowl. It was strange—Hecate had become so used to drying herself without magic while she was unwell that it had become one of the things that she no longer did without thinking. She had found that putting her hair up while it was still wet could make it dry with flyaways—and today, with Pippa Pentangle present, was a day she could not tolerate flyaways. She twirled her hands around her face, and her hair plumped out into thick, dry curls that hung heavily around her body—before transferring the towel back to her bathroom.

With Morgana satisfied, Hecate lit the lamp on her dressing table—with magic, this time. Fumbling with matches had always been such a degradation. She inserted one of her hairpins in at her crown, and at once the curls shivered and stretched out into limp, straight, lifeless length. She began combing her hair back, directing the long tresses into the high knot that she always did. Since Mistress Broomhead had made her wear her hair like this, she could not fathom changing her style into anything else. She noted that the ends of her hair needed trimming—she usually achieved this by magic and thus had not done so in quite some time, but she was always incredibly resistant to cutting even a fraction of her own hair. Change never came naturally to Hecate. She coiled and wove the length of her hair away, and pinned it until it would not move in a gale.

Once every part of her hair was tucked away neatly, she transferred herself directly to her office—early as it still was—to get on with marking over her morning pot of tea.

It was much later when Pippa finally joined her. She knocked, this time, on Hecate’s office door, and when Hecate bade her enter, appeared, carrying a plate of baked goods.

“Thought I’d find you in here. I baked these fresh this morning,” Pippa said brightly. “Go on, it looks like you’ve been working up an appetite and deserve a treat.”

“What—what are they?” Hecate asked, with a puzzled expression.

“Cinnamon rolls—have you never had one before?” Pippa exclaimed, as if Hecate had just said she had never tried bread. “Now you’ve _got_ to have one.”

Hecate picked up one of the sticky buns from the proffered plate. It was very attractively made, with what she imagined was some form of enriched dough rolled into a spiral of cinnamon sugar, with a thick glaze drizzled over the top to finish. She had never made anything quite like this, and doubted its nutritional value as a breakfast food, but to appease the eager Pippa awaiting her verdict, she took a bite. She immediately felt the sugar hit her. It was no wonder Pippa looked so energetic.

“I don’t know how you can eat something so—sweet—in the morning,” Hecate frowned. “I cannot imagine they are an efficient or sustained release of energy.”

“Of course they aren’t,” Pippa giggled. “What do you think of it, though?”

Hecate considered. The dough had just the right amount of crust and softness—and a slightly sour tang to it that offset the intensity of the drizzled glaze—and the cinnamon was warming and comforting. There was also a hint of orange zest in the glaze, which was the perfect accompaniment. 

“It is delicious,” Hecate admitted. Pippa summoned a cloth napkin for Hecate to wipe her fingers on, before taking a cinnamon roll for herself and burying her face into it, making an expression of pure bliss as she licked cinnamon from her lips.

Hecate made another pot of tea for them both, before they made another start on the marking.

* * *

It almost seemed impossible that they had made it through such an enormous task, but they had done it. Both she and Hecate were thoroughly burnt out, but they were finally triumphant.

“I will leave filling out the marks and re-calculating the final grades for another day,” Hecate sighed, tidying the last of the essays away to declutter her workspace.

Pippa pushed the plate of cinnamon rolls over to her. “I think we need at _least_ one each now.”

Against her better judgment—for she knew how the sugar was going to affect her when it ran out in a few hours—Hecate took one. It tasted just as good as the first one she had—and the victory made the pleasure sweeter.

“I should take one of these for Miss Nightscribe, shouldn’t I?” Pippa said, looking a little reluctant.

“Only if you want to,” Hecate retorted. “But I am certain she would appreciate it.” 

“There are so many left. We can’t possibly have all of these ourselves, and they’re really best on the day they’re made.”

“Very well. You remember the way to the library?”

“Of course I do—I could never forget, what with you dragging me in there with you all the time,” Pippa teased. “I’ll be back in a bit. Don’t go anywhere!”

* * *

Half an hour had passed since Pippa left to go to the library. It was almost enough time to start to worry about where she had disappeared to—but perhaps Pippa had become caught up talking to Miss Nightscribe—or perhaps Pippa was offering her some sage advice about teaching—yet perhaps something had gone terribly wrong.

Fifteen more minutes ticked by. Hecate started to feel cold fear inside her take hold. She would transfer down to the library—just to ease her mind.

When she materialised, there was no one in the library. It was curiously quiet. The kitchen, Great Hall, and all of the other rooms she could imagine as places both or either Miss Nightscribe could be were just as still and silent. Panic rose in her chest. Had Pippa left her again?

Hecate reached out with her magic to see if she could send a mental message to Pippa. _Pippa, where are you?_

She was back in the teachers’ wing now—light-headed from the dizzying effect of transferring so many times while her mind was ill-focused—her hand, shaking with anxiety, on Pippa’s room door. It was ajar.

“Pippa?” Hecate pushed the door open and looked around the room. She was nowhere to be seen, but Pepper was asleep on the bed with Morgana by his side. Hecate’s eyes pricked with tears at her own helplessness, and she stroked both cats, trying to conjure up a single rational thought. Pippa would never leave Pepper behind—and none of her things were missing—

“I’m right here, Hecate.” Pippa’s voice carried from the corridor behind her.

“I— was wondering where you were,” Hecate explained, sheepishly, blinking away the tears that had just begun. Her face had been drained of all colour in her panic and imagined she looked quite pale.

“I was just on my way back and thought I’d make us some tea.” Pippa shrugged, indicating the tray in her hands. “Would you like some?”

They must have missed each other in the corridors. That was all. Her concern about what had happened before at Westwood was clouding her judgment. “What kind of tea is it?” Hecate inquired, forcing her fear to be replaced with growing intrigue, and bidding Pippa enter her temporary bedroom. She had not realised that Pippa had taken such an interest in one of her favourite rituals. Hecate transferred the two armchairs from her room into Pippa’s, and they sat down by the unlit fireplace. 

“Oh, just a special blend I whipped up,” Pippa said, seeming to affect an air of off-handedness as she pointed a finger towards the hearth to light it. “White tea with lavender, calendula, and spearmint. Just for a little relaxation after all the sugar earlier.”

Hecate was surprised, but impressed. “You have kept quiet about this. Did you take the time to research after our tea-tasting at Westwood?”

“I wanted it to be a surprise,” Pippa smiled with a serenity that made Hecate’s heart jump. “I wanted to learn everything that you know, all over again.”

Hecate sipped the tea in silence, straining to keep the delight from showing on her face. She must be mistaken—Pippa did not—could not—mean this in the way that Hecate took it.

Pippa clasped her hands before her in anticipation. “Do you like it? It’s probably nothing like the lovely teas you’re used to.”

The hot liquid soothed her insides, easing the tension in her. It was smooth and delicious—the sweetness of the calendula set against the floral lavender, whose intensity was curbed by the lightness of the spearmint, and the white tea did not overpower any of the flavours or detract from the overall bouquet. It was a complex blend that she did not expect from Pippa. Hecate took another sip, fathoming the differences, all balanced together. She had enjoyed the different notes in her cinnamon rolls, but this was good on another level. “It’s intriguing. Have you made many tea blends before?”

“Oh no, not really!” Pippa laughed.

The tea was rather sedating. Hecate felt her limbs relax as she sat by Pippa—her legs feeling like they were sinking down into the floor.

“There’s something I need to tell you, Hecate,” Pippa began, suddenly a seriousness crossing her mouth, while excitement still shone in her eyes. “Hecate, I know I never meant much to you, but I—”

Hecate stood up, swaying slightly at the implication of Pippa’s words and where they might lead. “That’s not true. You meant— the most.” It tumbled out of her mouth unbidden. It was what she wanted to say, but not what she meant to say.

Pippa’s face was sad, yet hopeful, at the same time. “Hecate, tell me— _why_ has it never worked between us?” 

She was asking the most difficult questions—ones Hecate could not find the right words to answer. “You said in your letter that you never recovered from me leaving you. Well, I— I did not either. Leaving you was something I did out of necessity—not out of desire. But it would have destroyed you, Pippa, if you had known the truth—”

Pippa approached her, unhesitating. “I— Hecate— I didn’t know that you felt that way about me,” Pippa said, her eyes swimming with tears. She put a hand on Hecate’s forearm, and the touch burned through her clothing, sending a wave of comfort through her. 

_Pippa was making a mistake— she had to be—_

“At Westwood— I wanted to tell you—” Pippa began, faltering, “—I wanted to tell you everything.”

Hecate, with a desperate step backwards, realised that Pippa was steering them towards a point from which soon neither of them would be able to return. “Pippa, I do not know if this is—”

“—Hecate, you don’t have to hold back any more. I’m here. I want you more than anything else in the world.”

An overwhelming sensation came over Hecate; she froze, unable to make herself move. It did not feel like the work of any spell, but of the enchantment Pippa was casting with her eyes and with every step she took to close the distance between them. Pippa’s hand slipped about her waist; Hecate thought she would collapse from being held in such a manner. With each beat of her heart, pressure rippled throughout her body—she was losing the sense of herself and what she had promised that she would not do. All that mattered was here and now.

“Hecate—” The light blonde tones in Pippa’s hair sparkled in the light so perfectly that Hecate wondered how she could possibly be real—but here she was, before her eyes, with that irresistibly imploring need in the tilt of her chin up to Hecate’s face.

Hecate still could not speak. This would surely not end well, and yet— She could never have imagined that she, Hecate Hardbroom, would unable to take command of her senses and stop this unwise course of action from occurring. All her defences were shattered into pieces, and she was devastated to find herself immobilised, entrapped within a snare of her own craving, and could not stoop to pick up even one of the last shreds of sensibility that could allow her to step away from this situation.

Pippa’s face was now a breath away from hers—she almost did not want to set in motion the next stage—only to remain here, in the moment between not kissing Pippa and kissing Pippa—where she had wanted to be for twenty-five years, back with Pippa’s body tucked in close to hers, feeling her own heart pounding in her chest where she was sure that Pippa could feel it, being in such proximity as she was.

How could she reject Pippa again? Would this be a repetition of all the times that she had failed Pippa, when Pippa had been forced to flee from her, broken? And yet now—there was so little space between them—Pippa’s arm, still around Hecate’s waist, drew her closer in—their hips were touching. To back out now would surely irreparably damage whatever progress they had made towards reconciliation.

Her lips trembled to taste the kiss that would soon be hers. Thoughts of propriety had gone by the wayside—it was almost too late for that now. Everything felt as though it were slotting perfectly into place. And Pippa was nervous too—she had never known Pippa’s heart to race like this, beating as it was against her own chest, but twenty-five years certainly could change someone. Somehow it gave her comfort that Pippa was just as panicked as was she.

With her lips a split-second away from pressing against those of the woman in her arms—

“Hecate— Hecate, how could you?”

It was Pippa’s voice, but it was not coming from the mouth in front of her.

The woman holding her was not Pippa.

The illusion fell away. She was shorter—instead of Pippa’s long, blonde ponytail, a neatly combed head of waves—a pair of half-moon spectacles— 

—and in the doorway, a hand raised to her mouth in shock, eyes tormented by the horror before her—stood Pippa Pentangle.

“What—?” Hecate spluttered, and staggered back from Miss Nightscribe, running to the door to see the last wisps of Pippa Pentangle’s pink dress transferring away.

“Pippa!” Hecate shouted in vain, her words dying to the loneliness of the empty corridor. “Do you know what have you done?” Hecate hissed at the librarian, wheeling around in the doorway.

Miss Nightscribe smirked. The expression looked wrong on her face—so unlike the modest, unassuming Miss Nightscribe she knew—but perhaps she had never known Miss Nightscribe after all. 

With a click of her fingers, she transferred them out of Pippa’s chamber; Hecate felt the foreign magic seize around her and staggered as she found her footing. The familiar, usually comforting sight of Ada’s office surrounded her, but without Ada or Pendle, it felt strangely hollow.

“I know I’ve infiltrated Cackle’s Academy, against all odds. It was so _easy_. It’s only a matter of time before my mistress arrives now.”

Her mistress? Hecate felt her entire world unravelling before her. Cackle’s was in grave danger—and not only had she and Ada been hoodwinked into trusting this ruthless deceiver, but she had been humiliated—she had been about to kiss who she thought was Pippa. It had been many, many years since kissing someone had been an idea that had crossed her mind. Miss Nightscribe had tainted that moment that she should had felt with Pippa—and that was not the worst of it. Pippa had caught her locked in an embrace with Miss Nightscribe, on the verge of crossing the next physical barrier. 

It had all been the work of an illusion charm—to Hecate, Miss Nightscribe had worn the face of Pippa, and yet to Pippa, she must have looked like Miss Nightscribe. All those times Hecate had dismissively mentioned Miss Nightscribe—it must have seemed to Pippa as though Hecate were covering for some kind of infatuation—even though their relationship had appeared a professional one, at least on Hecate’s part. Hecate cast her mind back over every interaction she had had with the librarian to search for some kind of clue, something she had missed—there had been that incredibly awkward period when Miss Nightscribe had had romantic inclinations towards her. Hecate wondered if that attempted seduction had been a different plan by which she had been meaning to poison Hecate against Ada—although if it were, it had been a most inefficient attempt at seduction, and could never have led her to betray Ada. 

“You certainly made sure you knew about myself and Miss Pentangle,” Hecate spat, bitterly conceding that Miss Nightscribe had performed the role of Pippa in a convincing enough way.

“I’ve seen the way you’ve been mooning over that insufferable woman. I followed you two around, listening to you reminisce for _hours_ over tiny details like only old lovers would. When I first found out that she was staying here, I thought it had almost ruined my plans. However, manipulating your relationship like this was simpler than I anticipated. I needed _her_ out of the way so I could do— this.”

Miss Nightscribe raised her hand—Hecate immediately made to transfer out, when a searing pain on her back buckled her knees—she collapsed to the floor.

“Now, now, Hecate—” Miss Nightscribe chuckled. Hecate bit her lip against the agony as she tried to cast another spell and again was wracked by a crackle of arcane energy lancing through her back again. Over her, a hand shot out and glowing chains bound themselves around Hecate. “Do you like my little toy? I planted that when you were— distracted. I’m almost disappointed at how easy it was to sway such an indomitable witch as Hecate Hardbroom. It seems your reputation exaggerated your power and the resolve of your mind. You’re just like everyone else—weak.”

Weak. The word throbbed in her head as she gasped for breath.

“For how long— were you using the illusion charm?”

Miss Nightscribe raised her eyebrows. “Why, don’t you know her well enough to tell?”

“What does it matter now?” Hecate snarled, feeling savage in her distress over what Pippa must think of her. “She will hardly want to attempt to salvage whatever we had now.”

If Miss Nightscribe had a response to this, it was interrupted by a tapping at the window. Someone was hovering on a broomstick outside the window. At first glance, Hecate thought it was Ada—but there were no glasses perched on her nose, nor did she sit as Ada did on her broomstick, and her silver bob was more angular than Ada’s. 

“Agatha,” Hecate whispered under her breath, unsurprised to see Ada’s twin sister. She had had the misfortune of encountering Agatha several times in the past, but this time it had been a good few years.

Miss Nightscribe hastened to open the window wide enough for Agatha to enter, which she did with a litheness that Ada could not have managed. She dismounted from her broom, whose tail was threaded with belladonna and hemlock. Agatha appeared more youthful than Ada; her features were not lined with the decades of smiles and kind words, but rather, were cold—untouched by compassion—unfeeling.

“Hecate—so nice of you to join our little party,” Agatha purred as she circled around Hecate’s chained form. “What fun it was to see you all scratching your heads wondering what we’ve been doing in the forest with the dryads—but the real fun is only just beginning.”

“What did you want with the dryads? Where are you keeping them?” Hecate demanded, seeing her opportunity to extract information.

Agatha gave an airy laugh. “The dryads joined me of their own free will. And now they are under my command.”

“Fae creatures follow no master,” Hecate said scathingly.

“See for yourself,” Agatha smiled, taking up the magical chain and cruelly yanking it towards her. Hecate stumbled—without her arms free to steady herself, she fell to the ground, to the horrible laughter of Agatha and Miss Nightscribe. She lay silently, unmoving, listening to their howls and whoops. Once they had had their fill of Hecate’s humiliation, Agatha raised her up into the air and levitated her over to the window next to her. Agatha’s magic felt dirty around her, void of even the remotest of good intentions.

It was then that Hecate saw them—forming a perimeter around the castle were a circle of towering trees, lusciously green amongst the autumnal colours of the rest of the forest, their branches locked together in an impenetrable wall. A witch could easily fly over it now, but as Hecate watched, the boughs were stretching upwards, weaving together in a solid mass.

“Fae magic is very strong, when united and directed into a purpose. The castle will, within hours, be encased wholly in the powers of the fae. When it does, the magic of witches will not be able to penetrate it. The rest of my coven even now is casting protective spells over the dryads and their trees so they will not be able to be damaged by fire or iron. 

“There was the matter of the castle’s own pesky defences,” Agatha continued nastily. “But—” And here she threw back her cloak—under which she was wearing a sharply tailored jacket and skirt, a stark contrast to Ada’s comfortable dresses and cosy cardigans—but most importantly, from within her cloak she drew out a crystal, its heart aflame with a pulsating amber energy.

“The Founding Stone—” Hecate uttered, transfixed by the sight of it, wishing that it was under different circumstances, in order that she might pay it the reverence that such an ancient and hallowed magical artefact was due.

“Yes. The Founding Stone. Without this, the castle will be vulnerable. Brittle. Easily crumbled to dust. That would be my wish, but the dryads want to seal the castle away for themselves. Their combined magic will form a portal to the fae realm, and there it will reside, a testament to their anger at the loss of their dear mother tree. And as a consolation prize for relinquishing Cackle’s, the Founding Stone will be mine to do with as I please.”

Hecate felt tears spring to her eyes. It was her failing that had brought about this entire catastrophe. She had failed to recognise Ethel’s struggle—had neglected to check that her methods would bring no damage to the dryads of the forests on the mountain’s craggy shoulders that she had cared for over her lifetime.

“You see, Hecate, some witches pay attention to the subtle changes in the way the wind blows, and form alliances with those that so-called good witches scorn with their negligence and talk of the greater good.”

“You’re exploiting their rage,” Hecate said, scowling. “It is a preposterous manipulation, not an alliance.”

“That is why you may be a _good_ witch, but you will never become a great one,” smiled Agatha with the most patronising of tones. “And for all your talk of alliances—who is coming to save you? Even if Pippa Pentangle ever wanted to, she couldn’t. By the time she realises what has happened, it will be too late, and the castle will be sealed away in the fae realm forever.”

Agatha turned to Miss Nightscribe. “Lock her up. Let her fester with her thoughts as she experiences her final hours in the material plane.”

“With pleasure, mistress,” Miss Nightscribe simpered, and cast a hovering charm on Hecate’s immobile body.

Hecate found herself being lifted from the ground. How had this happened? How had she _allowed_ this to happen? Everything had been fine, and then all of a sudden, the ground had cracked open from under her, and she was now in freefall. She considered for a brief, hysterical moment that perhaps this was a sugar-induced nightmare—that she was asleep on the desk in her office, passed out from exhaustion, with still more marking to go. She laughed bitterly—which turned into a heaving sob as she realised that this was the grim reality—that she had failed all the important people around her—Ada—Pippa—Ethel—the school—every parent who had put their trust in her to keep their children safe—that she deserved this fate.

If this was rock bottom, Hecate thought as her feet hit painfully against a doorway as her hovering form was conveyed through the corridors—there was now only one direction she could possibly go. She would fight for Cackle’s—she could not give up while there was still time. Miss Nightscribe was on her own now—and perhaps she would have a chance—

Hecate began trying to cast—yet without the use of her hands, it was difficult. She writhed in pain as each attempt to bring her magic to the surface resulted in the cursed object affixed to her back violently attacking her with the energy of her own spells. Recklessly, she tried casting the highest level magic she could muster—

“You’ll wear yourself out like that,” Miss Nightscribe said, teasingly. She was too far away for the magical feedback from the curse to affect her in any way.

Hecate gave up. It had been foolish, wasting energy like that in a hopeless situation— but she had tried something. 

She became aware that she was now floating into a dark, disused classroom, possibly the one on the second floor if she had counted the staircases correctly. The hovering charm dissipated, and her bound body fell heavily, her bones bruising on the solid floor—but worse, her pocket watch clattered against the stone, springing open. Hecate gasped—but nothing happened beyond that. She hoped that it was undamaged. The door slammed shut, and a light emitting around the cracks in the door told her that it had been sealed with magic—and could only be undone by magic. 

Hecate shivered; although the floor was cold, and all the heat leeched from her limbs, she did not know whether she was shivering because of anxiety, fury, or the indignities that she had suffered. She cursed aloud in anguish once she was certain that the footsteps had died away.

A stirring in the corner alerted her.

“Miss— Miss Hardbroom?” came a familiar voice.

It could not be—? Hecate shuffled with her feet to angle herself towards the sound. In the shadows, she could make out another form bound in glowing chains.

“Miss Nightscribe? I thought—” Hecate faltered. Two Pippa Pentangles, and two Mattie Nightscribes—

“—Then she played an illusion trick on you too,” Miss Nightscribe blurted out, finishing Hecate’s thought. “Whoever she was, she’s a very— skilled illusionist.”

Hecate tried not to think about what form the witch had assumed in order to distract Miss Nightscribe.

“What if this is another trick?” Hecate said, thoughts flooding her mind. “What if you are another illusionist of Agatha’s coven, sent in to deceive me again?”

Miss Nightscribe gave a hollow laugh. “I have no proof that I can trust you either. But if it helps, I have no idea who Agatha is.”

“Miss Cackle’s twin sister, and about as unlike a person can be from Ada,” Hecate explained, sighing. “I think the only think we can do is trust each other.”

Miss Nightscribe paused. “What about Miss Pentangle? Where is she? Is she safe?”

“I am afraid I do not know,” replied Hecate gravely. “She transferred away.”

“Won’t she be back?”

“I— do not think that a likelihood.” Hecate’s heart felt heavy with what she had done. If only she had not lost control—

“I’m meant to be in Cambridge tomorrow for my conference. If all else fails, it’s possible someone will try to get in contact.”

The floor was hard and unyielding beneath Hecate’s head, and Miss Nightscribe’s words gave no comfort. Tomorrow would be too late, and the castle would be already in the fae realm. If they did not lose their lives in the transportation, and if they were not driven from their minds by the mischief of the fae realm.

Ada—she needed Ada. The school needed Ada. But Ada was too far away. Hecate could try sending a message to her, but it was really a spell best suited for short-range communication.

Perhaps Pippa had not gone too far. If she had not hopped straight on her broomstick and flown away in anger—there might be a slim chance that she was still in the castle. Perhaps she had seen the wall of trees and hesitated. Hecate had to hope. 

She focused her power on Pippa. Even though Hecate knew what it would do to her—the magical feedback from the curse it would bring upon her—she had to try to send her a message. _Pippa_, she thought, reaching out with her magic. At once, pain surged through her body. Some part of the message spell might make it through, and she had to believe that it could.

_Pippa—Agatha is here. We’re trapped on the second floor._ Hecate gritted her teeth as she was torn inside by the curse. She repeated it again. _Pippa—Agatha—here. We’re trapped— on the second floor._ She bit back the agony that was bursting through her. _Pippa—Agatha—second floor—_ The pain matched the intensity with which she was throwing her mind across the distance, but still she would not break. She had to reach Pippa—for reasons beyond the preservation of her own life—she could not see Cackle’s brought to ruin by Agatha, nor could she stomach the idea of Pippa thinking that she, Hecate would ever be disloyal to her.

_Pippa—_ Hecate willed all the magic within her into the message—but at terrible cost to herself. It finally broke down her self-control—she cried out with the pain, echoing in the dark room as Pippa’s name burst from her lips.

* * *

“Hecate—”

Hecate weakly flicked her eyes up into the brightness that filled the room. Silhouetted in the door was someone with the form of Pippa. Revulsion rose in her throat as she anticipated yet more deception.

“No—” Hecate moaned, half delirious as pain throbbed through her body. “You cannot be Pippa. She— she’s gone.”

The witch continued forwards. “Only fragments of your message got through. Morgana helped me to trace you.” 

Hecate could see the face of the witch now. She wore Pippa’s face—Pippa’s worry—Pippa’s unmatched beauty. She did not deserve to make a mockery of the real Pippa that way. “You are lying— Pippa is gone—”

The witch crouched down beside her—letting a cat down from her arms, who butted her head against Hecate’s motionless form—and softly smoothed Hecate’s hair where it had come loose from her bun. She bent her head low, her lips so close that Hecate trembled to feel her breath on her skin. “Hiccup, it’s me,” she said softly in Hecate’s ear.

The nickname that Pippa used to use for her—only the real Pippa would have known that. Only an extraordinarily powerful truth spell or information extraction potion would have been able to recover that from decades ago. Moreover, Morgana would only trust the real Pippa to pick her up.

“Pippa—”

Pippa drew back away, and channeled energy into the magical chains. They hummed warm through Hecate’s clothing, before overloading and shattering into fragments of light. The pressure around her body relaxed, and Hecate eased herself into a more comfortable position. With her hands at last free, she checked her pocket watch to make sure it was not damaged, before closing the half-hunter case that had snapped open. She tingled with the expectation of Pippa’s wrath, but it never came.

“She placed a cursed object on me to deter me from using magic,” Hecate said, turning and indicating her back.

“I see it,” Pippa frowned, and with a spectral projection of her own hand, plucked the item from Hecate’s back—a sharp pain like a bee sting—and then it was gone.

The ghostly extension of Pippa’s hand unfurled before Hecate to show her the thorn stem tied with herbs and a beetle husk. Hecate flexed her hand, and attempted to transfer Morgana back to her chambers. The spell completed, and Morgana vanished, to no ill-effect to Hecate.

“Thank you,” Hecate said to Pippa, who crushed the curse beneath the heel of her boot.

Miss Nightscribe cleared her throat, which startled Pippa and caused her to wheel around to see her crumpled form by the light of Hecate’s fire.

“_You_,” Pippa spat in the coldest tone Hecate had ever heard coming from her mouth, including the occasion at Mabon when she had admonished Hecate for her cruelty as a teacher—a memory that Hecate recalled with an agony so strong that she almost could not find it in herself to speak up.

“Miss Nightscribe is, I believe, innocent in this matter.”

Miss Nightscribe nodded appealingly. “Whomever you saw could not have been me.”

Pippa hesitated, looking to Hecate to see the truth in her eyes before breaking the bonds holding Miss Nightscribe.

Hecate swallowed. “Pippa, what was the last thing you remember before finding me in your room?”

Pippa’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “I was walking downstairs to the library, when all of a sudden, I couldn’t find my way at all—everywhere seemed to lead to a dead end. It must have been a labyrinth spell. I didn’t realise at the time, though—I just thought I lost my way after all these years. Then after a while, the way led back—back to you—kissing—”

Pippa shot a dirty look at Miss Nightscribe, who paled and gawped.

“I was kissing no one,” Hecate corrected her quietly. “You intervened before that— witch could touch me. She appeared to be someone else to my eyes. She must have drugged me with a powerful sedative that slowed my responses and muddled my thoughts. I— was not myself.”

“At that point I was trapped in here,” Miss Nightscribe piped up. “Miss Hardbroom— or someone I thought was Miss Hardbroom— told me to meet her here for—” Miss Nightscribe flushed a shade so red that it told Hecate everything she needed to know about what had transpired.

“We’ll all have to talk this through later,” Pippa said sharply, to Hecate’s utter mortification. “I don’t know what they’re planning, but it’s big.”

“I do,” Hecate hung her head.

Miss Nightscribe and Pippa listened as Hecate relayed what had happened in Miss Cackle’s office—all that Agatha had revealed of her plan, and of her theft of the Founding Stone. “They have used their fae magic to build a wall of trees around Cackle’s. It will overcome the castle in mere hours and create a portal to the fae realm. We have to find some way of stopping the dryads while there is still time. I think I can persuade them to change their minds about Agatha, but it will be difficult.”

Pippa put her hand on Hecate’s arm. “I can get you through the castle to the outer gates. We must not be caught. If she alerts the rest of her coven to our presence, they could easily overcome us.”

“I could simply transfer out.”

“No, Hecate—I think Agatha would be able to sense that much shift in magical energy,” Pippa warned her.

Hecate nodded, feeling uneasy at Pippa’s touch. 

“Miss Nightscribe,” Pippa began, “do you think you can keep up an illusion to make it seem as though Hecate is still here? Just in case anyone happens to check up on you.”

“Yes, of course,” Miss Nightscribe nodded, relief in her eyes. Hecate was pleased that Pippa was not blaming Miss Nightscribe for her doppelgänger’s actions—but still wondered what Pippa really thought about her own guilty part. Even with what Hecate told her, Hecate still had been about to kiss someone. If Pippa suspected it was she whom Hecate had been about to kiss—

“There’s very little time, if the dryads are still building that wall,” Pippa urged Hecate. 

Pippa cast a muffle charm on their shoes so they would not make a sound through the echoing stone corridors. They slipped out of the door quickly, and flitted into an alcove nearby to listen for oncoming footsteps. According to Agatha’s information—which could have been directly misleading—she and the illusionist were the only members of her coven within the castle, and the rest of the coven were outside of the dryads’ wall, casting protective spells upon them. They just had to make their way through the castle and hope no one was patrolling.

Pippa beckoned to Hecate, and they both proceeded towards the staircase down to the first floor, and stole down. As they looked about for the best possible route down to the ground floor, they heard footsteps at from the corridor at the top of the staircase they had just descended. Pippa grabbed Hecate’s arm and pulled them into the open doorway of a supply room, holding Hecate close to her.

Hecate clung to Pippa as the footsteps descended the stairs, before she realised that this was not the first time she had been held by someone who looked like Pippa Pentangle today. She felt her heart start to race and wanted nothing more than to _not_ be in Pippa’s arms, just as Pippa disappeared—as did her own body—but it was only an invisibility spell. It was exceptionally bizarre to still be able to feel someone else while one could not see them. The arms fell from around her, but instead a smooth palm slipped into her own. It could not be a romantic gesture—just out of necessity so they would not lose each other.

A dark head of curls bobbed past the doorway—Pippa’s hand tightened in shock or fear, and Hecate squeezed back to reassure her. However, the sight of her ignited something in Hecate’s memory—that was the witch who had been talking to Miss Nightscribe at Parents’ Evening. That could be the true face of the illusionist, or merely one she had picked out from those she had seen at Cackle’s— Then that was the day she must have infiltrated the school, when security had been at its most lax. Hecate made a mental note to thoroughly check all visitors if Cackle’s was still standing to suffer a subsequent potential hostile takeover. 

The footsteps died away, and Hecate led Pippa by the hand in the opposite direction to the one the illusionist had taken. There was a back staircase this way that would take them down behind the Great Hall, from which point they could head towards the Entrance Hall.

They met no resistance this way; it was eerily quiet, except for a single door that had not been closed properly, and was creaking as the wind shifted it back and forth on groaning hinges. Hecate restrained herself from closing it as she passed in case it was some kind of trap—anyone who had met her could guess that she could not resist putting things back into order—but it was most likely a careless student.

The silence set Hecate on edge. In addition to the fear that someone was silently watching, not being able to hear one’s own footsteps and being invisible was a curious experience—Hecate had no sense of when her feet were touching the ground from sight or sound. They descended the staircase, unlinking hands since it was narrow and spiralled. The torch flames licking the air in their sconces did not show their shadows gliding along the ancient stone—the invisibility spell was still active for now.

At the foot of the staircase, Hecate emerged first, and reached out for Pippa’s concealed form. She felt Pippa’s hand brush against her stomach as she did the same—her jaw tensed with the discomfort as unseen hands grasped at her body, her arm, until they found her hand once more. 

In wordless agreement, they started across the Great Hall. In the emptiness of the vast room, Hecate felt the hairs on the back of her neck prick up—they were so exposed here, and she feared a hidden host of Agatha’s coven could spring upon them at any moment—but the link of her hand with Pippa’s, for whatever reason it may have been, grounded her. 

Hecate felt a tug on her hand at the main door from the Great Hall, as if Pippa was about to lead them down to the left, where the light from the Entrance Hall windows shone—but Hecate halted.

_That is not the way_, Hecate sent her a mental message. _This must be an illusion_.

_I must not know Cackle’s as well as I thought_, Pippa returned. _But I trust you_.

Hecate studied the wall standing where the passage to the Entrance Hall should lie, and laid her hand upon it. Contrary to what she expected, the wall had sensation, and she did not pass through it.

_This is a powerful illusion—I will need to break it with a spell. The one who cast it may be aware when it has been broken, however_. 

_Is there no other way out of the castle?_ Pippa asked.

Hecate considered this for a moment. _There are other ways, but we would still need to break this illusion to reach them_.

_We’ll have to be ready. I’ll work on a distraction_, Pippa’s voice sounded in her head. _A spatial distortion hex for anyone who tries to transfer in, which should prevent them from being able to resolve on this floor and slow them down_.

It was a good plan. Hecate wished they had stopped by the potions laboratory for some additional ammunition and ingredients for spell enhancement—but time was precious, and the way to the potions laboratory had been the direction in which the illusionist had gone.

_Before we start this—when we reach the outer gate, I must go on alone. I already expect resistance from the dryads, and they will not take kindly to a stranger._

Pippa’s voice came through clear, after a brief hesitation, _you are right—we can’t risk doing anything that would make them distrust us. In fact, perhaps I had better stay here—to fight them off if they try to follow you._

Hecate wished she could see Pippa’s expression, but the invisibility spell was still in effect. She was reluctant to leave Pippa behind where she was in danger—but there was very little else they could do. Pippa was right, though Hecate hated to admit it.

_If everything goes south, meet me by the broom sheds. I will inform Miss Nightscribe as well_, Pippa told her.

_Please—take care of Morgana, if anything happens to me—_

_It won’t come to that, Hecate. But I promise I will._

Hecate felt an invisible force surround her—it was Pippa, hugging her tightly. Hecate wished she could stay here—but dwelling in sentimentality would not save the castle. She had to go.

_Start the hex_, Hecate said, breaking away from Pippa’s embrace. _We need to move quickly._

_Good luck, Hecate—_

Hecate focused all she could in the words she muttered to circumvent the illusion. All thoughts of Pippa must be kept aside—it was imperative that she kept a clear head. There were three levels of enchantment to fight through—the first had broken. She felt Pippa’s spatial distortion hex ripple through her as it spread throughout the entire hall like a sonic wave, but remained steady, chanting as quietly as she could. Soon, the second level was to collapse—

Pippa gasped, but Hecate could not look back. A cry peeled out, juddering through the distortion hex, before the sound wave itself reversed—the sound of a disrupted transfer. The second level was now undone—and now for the final part of the enchantment—

Bursts of energy behind her sent furniture crashing against the walls—Hecate, drawing from the last reserves of her magic, chanted louder—there was no point in being silent now that the illusionist and Agatha were most likely aware of their plan—

She completed the final phrase, and the illusion shattered. The doors were ahead of her now—Hecate made a dash for them, blasting them open with a flick of her fingers. She looked back—Pippa’s form was just becoming visible as the spell began to lose its hold, holding her palms out in a barrier—but she could not linger.

* * *

Hecate fled outside, feeling cowardly—suddenly aware of the great cracking sound high above her as branches stretched and grew rapidly. She looked up, seeing snake-like boughs weaving through and over and around each other in the air—stitching up into the sky, but not yet forming the curve of the dome overhead. There was still time. 

She began descending the steps down to the outer gates—past which all light was blocked out—faster than she ever had moved before. Her limbs were already fading back into visibility, just as Pippa’s were, but she knew she must conserve her magic now, to let it recharge. 

She plunged further into the shroud of darkness to where the outer gates were, just ahead. Pippa was far behind now—Hecate hoped that her hex would keep them back for a long while, but with two of them, or perhaps more if Agatha’s coven were involved, she had little hope that Pippa would not be overcome quickly. Guilt seeped through her as she let herself out through the wicket in the large gate, wishing there was any way in which she could ensure Pippa’s safety, knowing she would sacrifice anything to be in her place.

Across the bridge, the dryads’ wall towered more monstrous than ever. The ground was covered in huge roots that grasped like fingers over the edge of the moat, and mosses of every hue completely absorbed the path from the castle. Although it could only be mid-afternoon at the latest, it was as though she were entering a permanent dusk—damp and cool, with the dense mass of trees forming a microclimate. Already, the sounds of birds calling as they did before nightfall could be heard from the branches, and insects hovered lazily in the air. Were it not a deadly force attempting to swallow the castle and wrench it into the fae realm, Hecate would have thought it remarkably beautiful.

As Hecate approached the wall, she sang—not as a chant, but in a beseeching voice that came from her heart—the song that she had used to sing as a girl, and then as a young woman, in the forest during the days when her bond to the dryads had been strongest. 

An overgrowth of mushrooms had spread out across the damp earth underfoot, and grew forth from the bark of the wall. The moss was like a dense carpet beneath her feet, and it was draped thickly over the knuckles and knots of the great serpentine roots, which formed arches large enough for Hecate to walk under.

The fae magic felt stronger here, as though the area were already transitioning into their realm. Hecate reached the edge of the wall, and the magic thrummed through her, reverberating through her ribs—she felt it as many low, throaty notes resounding in a rich harmony. She put out her hand—now fully visible and solid—to reach out and touch the bark of the wall. 

“I, Hecate Hardbroom, friend to the dryads, seek counsel with you.”

It was some time before the tree appeared to shift—a figure took form amongst the bark—humanoid, lithe, with skin of rough bark and large black watery eyes on a tapered head, from which sprouted a shock of leafy hair. She knew from experience that dryads could alter their forms, and it was encouraging that the dryad had chosen this form to address her. Dryads did not usually have a leader; even though their mother trees tended to be occupied by an elder, their society mostly operated as a collective, sharing thoughts through their connections in the earth, as do trees. In speaking to one, she was speaking to many.

“Friend?” The dryad spoke slowly—their words each articulated with many small creaks and breaths that were barely perceptible as words unless heard by a practised ear. “Yet it was you, Hecate Hardbroom, who attacked _us_.” 

“The circumstances—I was trying to save your grove from a great evil—a Blight.”

The dryad tilted their head to the side. “The grove died without our mother tree to nurture and protect us. You speak of saving. Yet our grove was not saved.”

“Many more would have suffered had I not intervened,” Hecate said desperately. “Please— the witch who made the deal with you—the castle for your assistance—she has no good intentions, no regard for the sanctity of the forest. She would deceive you in an instant if it meant that she could gain something for herself.”

The dryad’s eyes looked blankly at her. 

“The future of witching kind is to be thrown into jeopardy by her actions that are only fuelled by hate, not by love of the forest. Without the castle, we will not be able to pass on the ancient traditions of witchcraft’s relationship with nature to our future generations.”

“And what of ensuring the safety of our sacred groves?”

“The destruction of Grey Gloaming was my responsibility. Let my pay my debt to you, but do not punish our descendants for my crimes. They will be taught better, if only you would spare the castle.”

The dryad was still for a moment. Hecate knew that they were communicating nonverbally with the other dryads, weighing her words carefully. Hecate nervously looked back to the sky, where the wall continued to rise, blocking out more light as it did so.

“Very well. We will allow you to offer us a deal to counter that which Agatha Cackle made with us. We will cease creating the portal while we try to come to an arrangement. We will continue if you fail.”

Two roots the size of large trunks parted with a terrible crack to reveal a hollow in the wall in front of her; inside a warm blue light emanated from mushrooms blossoming over the interior. Hecate bowed her head to duck through the threshold, and entered a sizeable chamber formed from a circle of trees.

“How will you show us that you will keep your word?” The dryad asked her, now illuminated only by the blue bioluminescence. 

“What would you have me do?”

Several other dryads stepped out from the shadows, closing in around her as she felt the fate of Cackle’s hanging in the balance.

“Your word does not carry weight with us any more, Hecate Hardbroom,” said another of the dryads. “You must give us something if you desire our allegiance.”

Behind her, another dryad spoke up, their voice deep and gravelly. “Agatha promised us this castle. But we care not for material things. What we value is the history of the stones. The stories they can tell us—of magic—of purpose—of the past. What will you give to us?”

“I have many magics available—potions, enchantments, protections—”

“We have our own magic. The magic of mortals does not interest us. It burned us.”

Hecate, frantic, knew that what she had to offer would be something precious and personal. Meagre things that she could freely expend like magics would not appease the ancient fae spirits of the forest. She was foolish to hope it would be that simple.

“Do not waste our time, Hecate Hardbroom.”

Her hand went to her heart—but touched that which lay over it. Her pocket watch—cooled by the autumnal air—she unlooped it from her neck, feeling the weight of it transfer from her body to her hands.

“I have but one thing I can offer—”

They looked to the small object clutched in Hecate’s hand. “We care not for trinkets.”

“I offer you not the watch itself, but the memories stored within,” Hecate said, her voice steady but her heart breaking.

The dryads turned their face towards Hecate, and the first one to whom she spoke held out their hand of spindly twigs.

“You said you wanted histories—stories. This is my story.”

Hecate carefully put the pocket watch into the outstretched hand of the dryad before her—first letting the chain pool over the bundle of twigs, then resting the watch on top. Her hand withdrew, trembling.

She told them how to activate the memories—though it had no hands, it could be wound to a select points in time using magic. 

“I have had this ever since I was an infant,” Hecate said hollowly. “You will feel where the most significant memories are. They will seem like bright stars.”

The dryad clicked open the pocket watch, muttered the command word, and a projection of a field of stars filled the ceiling. The others gazed up in awe. The one who held it attuned their magic to the watch, creating a glowing hand of their own on the dial, and using the crown, rotated the field of stars on the ceiling until the brightest star came into focus.

After a moment, the memory activated, and a large, smiling face appeared in the projection. Hecate turned away from the sight. She could not see this again. The cooing voice of her mother—Hecate had to block the sound out, knowing that this could be the last time—and not wanting to besmirch her recollection of it with this moment. Bargaining her memories for the castle was drastic, but she knew Ada would have made a similar or greater sacrifice.

At that moment, the ground shook around them. The dryads faded into the shadows at once, leaving Hecate with the original dryad she had been speaking with, who snapped the pocket watch shut, and urged Hecate out.

“Something is attacking our trees,” the dryad said, narrowing their eyes, and turning to Hecate. “We are not safe here.”

Hecate searched the skies, and saw a flock of witches on broomsticks in the skies. For a terrifying moment, she thought the school had arrived back early—but perhaps worse—she could tell by the lead witch’s posture and flash of silver hair that it was Agatha and her coven.

“Agatha—” Hecate whispered in horror.

“She has broken her promise to us.” The dryad leaned back their head and bellowed an awful cry.

_Pippa— where are you?_ Hecate thought a quick message to her. _The coven are attacking the dryads—we must help fight them off._

Overhead, Agatha’s coven were swooping at the walls, shooting angry bolts of energy at the tree wall, which sparked and crackled with flames. The coven’s protective spells were clearly shown to be nothing but falsehoods now. 

“Why have you stopped building the portal? Obey me, or I shall burn your entire forest to the ground,” Agatha’s voice boomed out with magical projection.

The dryads responded virulently. A billow of heavy dark cloud rolled across the visible patch of sky, bringing a shower of rain upon them, causing several of the older broomsticks to falter—the ones more susceptible to malfunctioning when touched by water—and fall from the sky. A terrible sound like the world was splitting apart almost deafened Hecate—the wall began to tear apart as limbs, suddenly glowing green with fae magic, disentangled from limbs, sending broken boughs falling heavily all around Hecate—and the giant trees came to life and began swinging furiously at the airborne broomsticks.

Hecate took up a broken branch that had fallen near her, mounted it as if it were a broom, and took off into the air to rise to meet Agatha, determinedly keeping Pippa from her mind.

There were at least thirty giant dryad forms breaking apart from the wall now—and they advanced, wrenching legs from the ground. It was not entirely unlike seeing the Blight awaken, except instead of dark magic, the pulse of fae magic beat around their gargantuan forms.

Bobbing and weaving between the dryads’ immense bodies, and the great clubs of wood crashing down through the air—dashing the witches from their brooms. Hecate winced at such violence, but she could not blame the dryads for defending their forests from Agatha’s threats. One of the coven noticed Hecate and swooped down to intercept her, but Hecate aimed a freezing ray at the witch’s broom, encasing it in ice—the broomstick lost height rapidly—and then—

Hecate was hit by a sudden force—her vision span around her as her makeshift broomstick was wrenched from her grasp and she plummeted to the earth, Agatha’s cackling following her down. But then—her fall was halted as a cradle of twigs wrapped around her body, and put her to rest on the mossy ground below. She gazed up at the colossal dryad looking down at her with knotty eyes, nodding her gratefulness to them.

Her protector then turned on her attacker—with the utmost precision they snatched Agatha from the air, snapping her broomstick in half immediately. The two remaining airborne witches from Agatha’s coven—for the rest had fallen or fled—darted directly for Agatha. Before Hecate’s spell could unleash from her fingertips, they cast dual fireballs—which scorched through the air and impacted the dryad on their limb holding Agatha, and another into their main trunk. Hecate cried out in anguish, helpless on the ground as one of the witches helped Agatha onto her broomstick and they took flight high away from the dryads, retreating into the sky to lick their wounds. Hecate grasped another fallen branch from the ground and flew up—but instead of pursuing Agatha, extinguished the burning dryad’s tree with jets of water.

The aftermath of the battle was devastating. The dryads’ trees fell where they stood as the dryads vacated them, some gathering to tend each other’s wounds. The wall was now a jagged scar around the castle—splintered wood and ruptured earth was deposited over the trampled mosses and mushrooms.

One of the dryads approached her, limping but still on their feet.

“We must thank you, Hecate Hardbroom,” they said in slow groans and gusts of air. “You fought bravely for us. You did not pursue Agatha Cackle for vengeance. You stayed to attend to my predicament. It is noted and appreciated.”

“It was all I could do.” Hecate bowed her head. She recognised the wounds the dryad bore as matching the one who had caught her from the air. “You saved my life, and Agatha was not worth sacrificing your life.”

“Agatha’s treachery will not be forgotten. Nor will your generosity be forgotten.” They put out their palm, and a green flash winked the pocket watch into existence. “These memories are important to you, Hecate Hardbroom. They would have been a great gift indeed. But we cannot accept them. Your debt is already paid.”

Hecate’s eyes flooded with tears as the pocket watch was offered back to her. She felt its cool surface in her palm, and folded her fingers over it. “Thank you,” she said, trying to keep her voice from breaking. “I will do everything I can to restore the Grey Gloaming Grove to its former glory,” Hecate promised.

“And we will repair this land that we have broken with our roots. You are indeed a friend to the dryads. Go now, Hecate Hardbroom. May we meet again under better circumstances.”

A great weight was lifted from Hecate’s heart. She had been plagued by her betrayal of the dryads, but to hear them forgive her filled her with a moment of peace amidst the destruction and loss.

* * *

_Pippa—_

Hecate took the branch she had been using as a broom and flew over the gate up towards the castle, feeling the wind and rain whipping around her. She had not heard from Pippa, and fear clouded over her victory. She needed to know that Pippa was safe—that Pippa had not— she could not bring herself to even think it. If anything had happened to her while she had been holding back Agatha and the illusionist so Hecate could escape, she could never forgive herself.

Pippa was not waiting by the broom shed—Hecate redoubled her speed back to the main castle keep. The doors, when she got there, had been splintered from their hinges and lay broken on the ground. Panic seizing her throat, Hecate dropped the branch and rushed into the Entrance Hall.

It was clear that a fight had happened here—furniture was scattered about, and scorch marks from spells blasts stained the floor and walls. Pippa’s spatial distortion hex had long since been broken through. 

_Pippa, where are you?_

There was still no response. 

_Miss Nightscribe—_

Hecate had left Miss Nightscribe last in the classroom in which they had been held prisoner. It was a likely place to look. She transferred directly to the second floor, locating the door and testing it for any wards or spells. There was one—Hecate countered it, her magic mostly spent as it was—before fumbling to open the door.

In the gloom within were two bound people—Miss Nightscribe, and—

“Pippa—” Hecate exclaimed.

Pippa stirred. “Hecate?”

Hecate dropped to her knees beside her—she broke away the chains binding her precious limbs—plucked off the cursed thorn dug into her back—and wept. For here was Pippa—Pippa safe—the castle safe—and she held Pippa tightly, feeling her defences fall as she sank into the hug.

“Hecate, did we—? Is the castle—?”

Hecate loosened her hold on Pippa, and let her hands rest on Pippa’s upper arms as she spoke, a smile breaking through her tears. “We were successful. Agatha is gone, and the school is safe.”

“They overpowered me—” Pippa began. “I held them off for as long as I could, but— you’re here now. Everything is all right.”

Just as Hecate began to almost relax, she stood bolt upright as a terrible thought occurred to her. “The Founding Stone—”

“It’s still in Miss Cackle’s office,” Pippa reassured her, but Hecate knew that she would not feel secure until she had seen it for herself and verified that it was not an illusion.

“Erm— could you possibly free me as well?” Miss Nightscribe’s voice came weakly from the shadows.

Hecate guiltily went over to Miss Nightscribe and did so, noticing that she had a nasty bruise on her face. Hecate had quite forgotten that she had been there in her overwhelming relief to see Pippa unharmed.

“They discovered my illusion of you here when they brought Miss Pentangle up,” Miss Nightscribe explained with a grimace. “I’d better try to contact the conference organisers and let them know I might be arriving later tomorrow. And maybe I’ll try to get some rest.”

“Go on, Miss Nightscribe. You’ve done very well,” Pippa said. “Hecate and I will look for the Founding Stone.”

* * *

As soon as they transferred into Ada’s office, they found themselves drawn in reverence to the crystalline structure of the Founding Stone, which rested on the centre of the headmistress’s desk, amidst various correspondences, tomes with gilded pages, quills, and sweet little knicknacks. Hecate was overcome by its splendour—yet she knew that it could be just an empty promise of smoke and mirrors, like so much else that had happened that day.

Hecate turned her wrist in a complicated gesture. The spell made contact—Hecate waited with dread, but nothing happened. The Founding Stone glowed steadfastly, and Hecate’s heartbeat slowed to match its comforting pulse.

“At least one thing today did not turn out to be a falsehood,” Hecate sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose in exhaustion.

Pippa rested her hand on Hecate’s back. “Hecate— I’m sorry for whatever part I played in that.”

Hecate blanched. Had Pippa guessed that the illusionist had tried to seduce her with Pippa’s image? 

“You need not apologise,” Hecate said warily, clearing her throat, before leaning her hand heavily on the desk. “It has been a very long day.”

Pippa guided Hecate over to the soft grey armchairs by Ada’s fireplace, hand in the small of Hecate’s back. Hecate allowed herself to be led, too tired to even process the sensation of Pippa being so gentle with her as she helped Hecate into the armchair.

Pippa wordlessly summoned a tea tray onto the side table—an elegant tea pot with a swan’s neck for a spout, two cups and saucers—she tapped the pot to heat the water, and spooned in a shower of tea leaves from a tin patterned in gold and jewel tones.

“What happened out there? How did you persuade the dryads?”

“They wanted an exchange. I offered them this,” Hecate said, fingering the chain around her neck.

“Doesn’t that contain—?”

Hecate held the pocket watch tightly in her hand. She could not believe that she had almost relinquished it—all the memories of her mother—all her memories of Pippa—

“—my childhood memories—all that I have of my mother. However, when Agatha realised that the dryads stopped the portal to the fae realm—that they were negotiating with me—she attacked them to terrorise them into obedience. That was her grave error.”

Pippa poured them each tea from the swan-necked pot, and handed a cup to Hecate. “I’m so glad you didn’t have to make that sacrifice, even to save Cackle’s.”

Hecate was about to take a sip, but suddenly lowered the cup from her lips and looked into the liquid, panic striking against the inside of her ribs.

“Wait—what’s in this?”

Pippa looked up, surprise crossing her face. “Oh— it’s just normal tea, I suppose. I know it’s nothing fancy—you’d probably much rather something more special—but I’m no tea expert, not like you.”

Hecate smiled. “On the contrary,” she said, letting the steam rising from the cup fill her with warmth. “It’s just what I needed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ho boy this is long. it's 27425 words long. i'm sorry.
> 
> also i'm sorry for,,, THAT BIT hhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
> 
> flirting via aspergillum
> 
> the ending of this chapter feels like An Ending to the fic but it's not, i promise you. i just wanted to bring this arc to a satisfying conclusion because i know i'm probably only going to have time to be working on winter warmers for the rest of december!
> 
> thank you so much for reading, especially bearing with my slowness to update and ,,, maybe this chapter didn't need to be THIS long but i wanted to acknowledge the dryad plot i'd been sitting on for so long and it's nice to finally get that bit out there
> 
> Heathcliff  
@heathtrash on tumblr and twitter


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ada returns to Cackle's after the camping trip, and Hecate must explain what transpired in her absence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> “But she could remember going cold with excitement and doing her hair in a kind of ecstasy (now the old feeling began to come back to her, as she took out her hairpins, laid them on the dressing-table, began to do her hair), with the tools flaunting up and down in the pink evening light, and dressing, and going downstairs, and feeling as she crossed the hall ‘if it were now to die, ‘twere now to be the most happy’. […] all because she was coming down to dinner in a white frock to meet Sally Seton!”  
Virginia Woolf, _Mrs Dalloway_
> 
> cw for grief, familial neglect

The school returned from their camping trip tired, exhilarated, and in need of a recovery from their holiday—and while all physical signs of rain and forest and mud had been removed by magic, there was still a distinct air of outdoorsiness about them that Hecate was thankful she had not had to experience.

Hecate knew she would have much explaining to do about what had transpired in her absence, and was dreading that inevitable conversation with Ada. Since the matter was under control, she had seen no reason to interrupt the school’s trip, particularly since she foresaw Ada cutting it short and wanting to return at once to her beloved castle, which was wholly unnecessary. Hecate had, of course, immediately informed the Magic Council, who had sent over a representative to take down Hecate’s report and ensure that both she and Pippa had all the necessary materials and power to complete the repair work to the castle. The Magic Council representative had done a very thorough job, much to Hecate’s respect, although it had meant that she had stayed long enough that Hecate had had to provide lunch, which proved quite awkward as Hecate scrambled around the kitchen trying to make something impressive under the time pressure.

Pippa had had to leave before she was intending to, on account of her presence being required for some crisis or other at Pentangle’s—Pippa was vague on the details. In a way, Hecate was relieved, for the stillness and calm Pippa left in her wake gave her the time she so desperately needed to process all that had happened with the false Pippa, and to attempt to separate that from how her relationship with the true Pippa had really progressed—how they had grown closer through their shared peril. It had to be easier for Pippa—Hecate was certain that had their roles been reversed, she would have felt far less awful—but Hecate wondered whether the emergency calling her away was not at least in part fictitious.

When Miss Nightscribe had returned from her conference a few days later, Hecate had already managed to complete most of the repair work. It was fortunate, since Miss Nightscribe headed straight to her chambers without so much as a word to Hecate after sending a message ahead about her return. What had happened must have been embarrassing, painful, or both—Hecate thought it prudent to let her have her space. It was her preference to work in solitude in any case, she thought, as she dwelt each night on the empty bedroom down the corridor from her own, wondering if Pippa might ever come to stay again.

* * *

The castle looked as pristine as ever upon Ada’s return, such that she was blissfully unaware that anything was amiss. Decades of living at the castle meant that Hecate knew exactly where everything ought to be, down to the inch—and there were a great many things one could do with the right potion that ensured objects could be taken back through time to their former state.

The dryads, true to their word, had restored the grounds that their roots had torn apart—although far less precisely. Ada had noticed nothing of this, which made Hecate wonder if she had spent altogether too much time obsessing over the precise positioning of all the many ornaments on Ada’s desk.

When Hecate requested a private formal meeting with Ada, almost as soon as she had settled in—for it was also the delicate subject of her _sister_ with which they were contending—Ada was surprised at Hecate’s insistence that yes, it really was important that they do this now. Her suspicions were not raised, however, as they often had their deputy and headmistress meetings after Ada had been away from the school.

It was always a shame to worry Ada—this time, her face was relaxed and smiling from being out in nature for so long, and she had brought back in a hand-thrown frog-shaped pot a sorry-looking shrub that she told Hecate she was going to nurse back to health—and Hecate felt profoundly awful that she would have to upset her with the news of what had befallen the school in her absence—in addition to the dismay at having yet another plant that she would have to secretly tend to while Ada made the most well-meaning attempts to love her latest plant friend to death. Hecate could sense Ada’s unease as she sat opposite her by her fire, stiffer than usual, wincing as she prepared to break the news.

Ada’s horror was quickly replaced by relief once Hecate revealed that nothing had been damaged beyond repair, that the Founding Stone was safe, and that they were not likely to be attacked by a horde of angered dryads in the near future.

In her recounting of the tale, Hecate glossed, somewhat, over the way in which the illusionist had managed to slip past unnoticed—that it had been her weakness to the sham seduction—but told her in full detail about the dryads’ involvement, Hecate’s negotiation, and the ways in which Pippa and—to a lesser, yet still significant extent—Miss Nightscribe had been of crucial importance to their victory.

Hecate could not, however, hide the fact that Pippa Pentangle had stayed at Cackle’s as her guest. Hecate was well within her rights to invite whomever she wished to the castle, particularly when her duties were nothing more exciting than marking and ensuring everything was inspected and taken care of—which _was_ rather important in an ancient castle that was prone to leaks and occasional structural difficulties that had to be held back with containment charms, lest parts of the historic stonework collapse and cause floors or wings to cave in.

“Ada, I feel fully responsible,” Hecate asserted. “Had I never allowed Pippa Pentangle to stay at Cackle’s, and subsequently the security of the castle to have been breached, the whole affair may well not have taken place.”

Ada looked sternly over her glasses at Hecate. “Hecate, I won’t hear you blaming yourself baselessly like this. In fact, I believe that even had Miss Pentangle not been here, this illusionist would have found some other way to deceive you. Mattie Nightscribe was still here—undoubtedly she would have tried to play you off each other little by little. And it sounds like it was only through Pippa that you managed to escape, really.”

Hecate looked down at her hands in her lap in shame. Ada was right—she was not the unshakeable force that she thought she was. 

“Hecate, there is always a benefit to opening yourself up to friendships. There is much greater strength to be gained when you are not restricting yourself to your own experiences. I know that on your own you can accomplish great things, but it can also be rewarding to collaborate—not just for the betterment of the outcome, but also emotionally.”

Hecate considered Ada’s words carefully. Perhaps she had a point—if not about the emotional side, then certainly in terms of striving towards excellence.

”What you and Miss Pentangle managed to save the school from—and with such delicacy, deserves recognition.”

“Thank you, Ada,” Hecate said quietly. She took a deep breath in, and exhaled, mentally preparing herself for what she was about to ask next. “What is to be my punishment, for allowing this catastrophe to occur?”

Ada blinked in shock. “Punishment, Hecate?”

“Surely the Council will want to see that some evidence of justice, since the Founding Stone was almost lost under my vigilance?”

“Hecate, did you listen to a word I’ve been saying? If anything, we’re going to _celebrate_. Isn’t it your birthday coming up?”

Hecate despaired inwardly. Of those in the castle, only Ada remembered the exact date of her birthday—usually she was spared most of the embarrassment of having a birthday at all with nothing but a single discreet gift either transferred directly to her chambers or left behind after Ada had invited herself into Hecate’s sitting room for a pot of tea. Hecate was grateful for Ada’s usual discretion, which was why she was so ruffled at having the occasion outright referenced.

“It is, but I do not see the relevance of that to celebrating that the castle has not fallen into your sister’s possession—which in my mind should be a given, not something remarkable.”

“I was thinking they could be one and the same.” Ada smiled in a mischievous fashion. “Of course, not everyone need know it’s your birthday. But you, Miss Pentangle, and Miss Nightscribe will be the guests of honour.”

Hecate let nothing but the deepest disdain curve her mouth, but said nothing.

“Then it’s decided.” Ada clapped her hands together in glee. “I’ve always wanted to plan you a birthday party, and I daresay I won’t get another opportunity as perfect as this.”

“No students,” Hecate managed to hiss out through her tensed jaw.

“Of course not,” Ada said briskly. “I shan’t let you have any excuse to divert your attention from the festivities with unscheduled uniform inspections. No, you will have only adult company, which will be a lovely opportunity for you to meet people and network.” 

Hecate realised her error too late. She tried to weigh up whether it would have been more odious to endure the students discovering that she did indeed have a birthday, or to have to attend a celebration held in her honour and have to meet new people. Truthfully, she suspected that even with the long-term implications, the students would be the better option. 

“Very well.”

She did not want the recognition—she did not _deserve_ the recognition for averting a crisis for which she felt responsible. Yet to please Ada, she would silence her complaints.

* * *

A knock came at the door. With a single hand, Hecate waved it open—to reveal Ada Cackle, bundled in a soft cardigan with Pendle sitting on her shoulders like a black scarf, his tail trailing over her chest.

“Good morning, Ada,” Hecate said, still slightly wary since their conversation the previous day about her—she could not even think the word _birthday_—about the upcoming event. She looked at the names she had just written—Pippa Pentangle’s was at the top. While Hecate knew that Pippa would of course, already be invited on account of the celebration partially being about her, the truth was that Hecate really did not know many people whom she thought she could invite to such an occasion without feeling as though she were being unreasonably demanding of their time.

“Ah, Hecate—glad to see you’re working on that guest list. Who have you got so far?”

Hecate cleared her throat and read out the short list of names. She could tell that Ada was frowning—Hecate knew a disappointingly small number of people—but Ada was trying her best to look neutral.

“Do you think you’ll allow plus ones?”

Hecate pursed her lips. She did not wish for potential strangers turning up to this event—for was it more uncomfortable to have to make small talk with people who did not know her, or to be around people who knew her and would be wanting to wish her well, but only because the setting compelled such comments? She was a private person, and ideally she wanted none of these people giving disingenuous compliments or half-felt wishes for a happy birthday. But since it seemed inescapable—a few of the guests might not know each other, and the option to bring a partner or friend was perhaps one way to ease that tension—she knew that it was something she ought to consider.

“I suppose I shall have to,” Hecate sighed.

“It’s your party, so don’t feel as though you have to—although I may have to remind you of some people I am certain would be delighted to hear from you.”

“I wish you would not call it a _party_,” Hecate frowned, ignoring the other part of Ada’s comment.

Ada shook her head good-naturedly at Hecate’s gruffness. “I’m going down to lunch in a bit. Let me know when you are ready. Bring your list. I will help you pad it out a little.”

At Hecate’s reluctant assent, Ada left her to the stale air between the nib of her quill and the list.

* * *

With Hecate’s permission, Ada sent preliminary invitations to Pippa and Miss Nightscribe, since they were also being honoured with the event, along with a note that they could invite whomever they wished. Hecate knew the precise moment that such an invitation came into Pippa’s possession, for her mirror buzzed with the excitement of her call waiting to burst forth into the stillness of Hecate’s sitting room.

“I _just_ received notice about a certain event in this morning’s post,” Pippa began as soon Hecate connected the call, her face animated—her exhilaration barely held back. “Hecate, I can’t believe you’re actually having a _birthday party_!”

Hecate took a deep breath, bracing herself to keep her dignity in the wave of Pippa’s enthusiasm. “A more accurate statement would be that Ada Cackle is forcing me to celebrate my birthday, in honour of our saving the castle from being taken over by her sister. I had very little choice about inviting you, since you were fundamental to our success.”

“Hecate Hardbroom, was that humour?” Pippa said wryly.

Hecate blushed to hear her full name on Pippa’s lips. “Of course not. You know I never tell jokes.”

“Anyway, I’m so glad you invited me—it’s not _only_ because of us saving Cackle’s together, is it?

Hecate paused to cast her eyes deep into the woodgrain of her desk. “We have been through a lot together.” 

“Yes,” Pippa said, in a soft voice that tugged Hecate’s gaze back to the mirror to look upon her face, with the plain mirror frame unworthy to surround her dazzling beauty. Pippa smiled in understanding. A few stilted moments passed.

It was Pippa who broke the silence. “Who else is coming?”

Hecate ran over the list of invitees briefly. Pippa tilted her head when Hecate finished, as if expecting more.

“That is all,” Hecate said, lowering her eyes in shame.

“Really?” Pippa frowned.

“I do not believe that anyone else would want to be there.”

“What about family—your father?”

Hecate’s face hardened.

“He’s not—?”

“—He is still alive,” Hecate said in a monotone. “I have had no contact with him since—” _since I turned my best friend into stone and effectively killed her_ “—for a long time.”

Pippa detected the hesitation in Hecate’s voice—she had almost revealed the cause of her shame, and her confinement to the castle, and the words had felt so close to her surface that Hecate was worried that she could have read them upon her face. “What happened?”

Hecate shook her head. “After my mother died, he lost interest in me. And once I was at Cackle’s, he no longer had reason to communicate with me. I have not heard from him in thirty years.”

“Thirty—? Didn’t you see him when you were at school? During the holidays?”

Why had she not simply said that they had lost touch after she had left school? That would have been the far simpler option. She did not know why it was now so difficult for her to avoid telling the truth again to the person she had kept it from consistently for their entire shared time at school. It had been a great many years since she had had to regurgitate the old lies—for those in her regular acquaintance knew better than to ask about her personal life, at the risk of Hecate’s acerbic tongue.

“No. I stayed with someone else between the school terms,” Hecate said, suppressing the cold shudder that went through her at the thought of just who that person was. Broomhead was someone of whom she definitely did not wish to be reminded.

Pippa’s eyebrows furrowed. Hecate knew that this was the most she had ever told her about her home life, aside from her mother’s death, and it was fervently not a conversation she wanted to have with Pippa—least of all over the mirror.

So many of their conversations about themselves had ended in Hecate managing to say nothing of the sad history of her childhood to Pippa. Hecate had always prevaricated in the matter of her upbringing and what had happened after her mother had died, and that first disastrous year at Cackle’s—and Pippa had let her. Pippa was only too happy to gush over the family holidays she had had with both of her very much living parents to places all over the witching world—about her mother’s success—her father’s charming hobbies—with such animation that Hecate was utterly unable to resist being carried along in the love that Pippa held for her parents.

Pippa had never even known of the strained relationship Hecate had with her father—of how Hecate had written him letter after letter in the aftermath of the Indigo Moon incident. She had once found Hecate crying after another month had gone by and still she had received no word from him addressed to her. She had only received a copy of his acknowledgement of the school’s decision to confine her to the academy—of the forms he had signed in a heartless hand accepting that he entrusted her care to whomever the school board and the Magic Council saw fit to assign. Hecate had been able to pass it off as missing her mother, and Pippa—the younger, naïve Pippa—had believed her. It had been so easy to lie to Pippa back then.

“I’m sure he’d be glad to hear from you after all these years. Why don’t you send him an invitation and see what happens?”

“I care for him as much as I do any man—which is to say, not in the slightest,” Hecate sighed. “I believe he knows of my continued existence, and of where I am employed. That is all he needed to know to contact me—and he has never done so. It does not bother me.”

Pippa was shocked at Hecate’s nonchalance. Hecate knew that Pippa still had a very good relationship with both her mother and father, from the reports she had seen of Pippa throughout the decades with her two happy parents as they aged alongside her, attending all her events and supporting the daughter they cherished so much.

“I’m sorry—”

“You need not be,” Hecate said, with a smile that barely convinced even herself. While it was true that she did not care for him, she regretted that her mistakes had caused him so much shame. “He is no longer part of my life. I think if we were to see each other again, it would not be a pleasant meeting. I have all the family I need here at Cackle’s.”

Pippa’s expression darkened as she leaned back from the candlelight. “You never told me— I thought you— you always said that you spent the summers with your family.”

“That was an assumption that you made—and one that I neglected to correct.” Hecate let her eyes fall to the bevelled bottom edge of the mirror, where the image doubled and distorted. The shame was too much for her to continue to hold Pippa’s gaze.

“Hecate, was this—your relationship with your father—the truth you said you’d been keeping from me?” Pippa asked cautiously.

Hecate thought back painfully to the conversation she had had with Pippa on the evening of the Hallowe’en Ball. _“There are things I cannot tell you— things about me that I am not proud of.”_ It would have been so easy to simply say _yes_, to lie again. She remembered how Pippa had touched her arm and said, _“I’m sure whatever it is, you have a good reason to keep it to yourself. You know you don’t have to tell me everything about yourself for me to trust you.”_

“No. It is only a small part,” Hecate admitted, hoping that Pippa would accept this, and that the revelation that she had been lying—or at the very least, concealing the truth. “I am sorry— I am not ready to—”

Pippa shook her head and gave a small, sad smile. “I understand, Hecate. You can tell me in your own time—if you want to, that is. Thank you for telling me.”

“Thank you for— being so understanding. But of course, please do not attempt to contact him. He was— not a good father.”

“Of course. I would never want to make you feel uncomfortable.”

Neither of them said anything for a few moments. Hecate thought she could still see traces of sadness in Pippa’s eyes, and tried to remember how they had even arrived at that topic, and wondered how best to get back on track and shift the focus from herself.

“The guest list—” Hecate began awkwardly. “The guests can all bring plus ones with them, if they so wish. It was a suggestion Ada made.”

Pippa seemed to leap on the change of topic like a lifeline. “I gather I’m allowed to invite some guests of my own? Ada did say that this was a ‘joint’ celebration, but I don’t want to overwhelm you with too many people.”

“Of course you may. This is as much your event as mine,” Hecate assured her, even though inside she was embarrassed that Pippa recalled her discomfort around large crowds.

Pippa shot Hecate a look of disbelief that she could feel palpably through the glass even though they were in separate rooms, miles apart in their respective schools. “You really don’t see that this is mostly just an excuse for Ada to throw you a birthday party?”

Hecate sighed. “I was dimly aware, yes—but I was trying to deny it as much as possible.”

“It might not be so bad. You might even have fun.”

Hecate dismissed this out of hand. “You know I have never been much one for birthdays.”

“I know,” Pippa said with an exasperated look. “You hid the date from me for _two years_, Hecate.”

“I never wished for you to go to any trouble for my sake,” Hecate muttered. When Pippa had finally discovered the date—after much heavy investigatory work, Hecate had simply told her to avoid her breaking into Mrs Cackle’s office and finding out from her student record, which also contained Hecate’s real name, which she did _not_ want Pippa discovering—she had made sure that they did something to mark the day. She struggled to keep the emotion from her voice as she continued, “but you managed to— do something wonderful for me, even though you really did not have to.”

If Pippa noticed her tears, she said nothing about them. “I _wanted_ to make everything perfect for you, Hecate. Everyone deserves to feel special, but especially those who cannot see how special they are to others.”

Hecate opened her mouth to speak, but no words would form themselves in her throat. 

Pippa looked behind her suddenly, as if she had heard something outside of the range of the mirror spell.

“Hecate— that was my door. I’m afraid I have to cut things a little short. I’ll see you soon, all right?”

“Of course,” Hecate said, and the mirror went dark as Pippa ended the connection.

Hecate deflated as the effort of keeping up a brave face flooded from her, and spilled down her cheeks. She would have to cope with the real Pippa soon—which would be far more trying on her self-discipline. Morgana leapt up onto the bureau, and Hecate buried her face into her soft fur, craving comfort of some kind.

* * *

The kitchen shimmered around her, each glass surface crystallising into magnificent facets of light as her field of view shifted about the room. On the table, a crinkled letter—

Hecate’s hand reached out towards the envelope—trembling—she felt its weather-worn surface beneath her fingers and knew that it was the original letter that Pippa had written those few weeks ago. Pippa had ridden through wind and rain and night to carry this to her—whatever was within must be important. 

The envelope was not sealed—the flap was merely folded down into place. Hecate run her thumb underneath to open it. She could see the folded paper of the letter inside, covered all over with the loops of Pippa’s handwriting, blurred in places from water damage—raindrops—or teardrops.

She unfolded it, seeing the words, but she could not focus on the writing before her—even though she could recognise that it was in Pippa’s hand. There was a strange slippage between the words and the sense of them in her head. The harder she struggled to understand, the more the meaning fled from her. The edge of the page wavered in her vision. Light from a candle was dancing across the page—

Awakening with a start, Hecate sat bolt upright. It had just been a dream—yet she tore herself from her sheets in a frenzy and snapped her fingers to light a candle to bear to her writing desk, shivering against the chill of her chambers in the twilight hours as she stole through the darkness.

Hecate knew she could not rest until she looked once more at the letter that Pippa had given her at the Hallowe’en Ball; it was easy to locate the envelope among her correspondence even in the low light that the candle cast, for it was the only one in a pale shade of pink. Hecate knew that this letter was not the same as the one that haunted her dream—in fact, not only had the original letter been in a plain white envelope—the ink was also a different colour. Hecate could not wholly trust her memory, but she felt reasonably sure that the ink had also not been the deep purple that curled across this envelope.

Hecate read over the letter again, searching—yet she knew not why or for what. She wondered whether there was any significance over the fact that the letter she had found and the letter she had received were different. She had not considered it before—but now she thought about it more, the tone of this letter, while it revealed a little of Pippa’s feelings, was conciliatory—and, Hecate thought, overgenerous in her estimation of Hecate’s innocence in breaking Pippa’s heart. It could even be read as cautious. It did not seem like the sort of letter one rode in the middle of the night to deliver.

In the dream, the words of the letter had been blurred with water damage. While she was certain the powers of her imagination could not extend to conjuring the exact wording of a letter she had never read, it did make her think—perhaps it was simply that Pippa had to rewrite the letter after it had been damaged in the rain—but this seemed unlikely, since Pippa could have easily restored the letter to its original state with a spell. Something did not add up.

The mystery was maddening. There were so many possibilities as to why Pippa would write a second letter that Hecate knew it was foolhardy to continue speculating on the matter. Tomorrow would be the day of the event Hecate had been trying to pretend was not already upon her—and it made very little sense to lose sleep over this.

In any case, the knowledge that the letters were different was unhelpful, since she could never ask Pippa about it directly. There was no conceivably convincing reason that she should give for having discovered the letter—other than curiosity over what had been in the pocket of Pippa’s riding jacket, which was hardly the explanation she wanted to give Pippa.

There must have been a reason that Pippa had not given the original to Hecate—whatever it was, Hecate knew that she had to accept it, and respect that Pippa had made the right decision in giving her the pink letter.

Hecate replaced the envelope amidst her correspondence and returned to bed, where Morgana had already stolen her pillow. Her velvety black nose looked too peaceful to disturb, so she snuffed out the candle and took the other unfamiliar side of the bed, preparing for a restless night.

* * *

When Hecate awoke to Morgana walking over her face at three in the morning, she sighed deeply and wondered why she had bothered trying to preserve the sanctity of her cat’s sleep when her cat would never extend her the same coutesy.

She felt as though she had not long since awoken from her unsettling dream about Pippa’s letter—it had only been a few hours ago. She knew she would need more sleep, even though there was always the option of Wide-Awake potion—every muscle in her body craved to be cradled just a little longer in the softness of bed—sinking down into the mattress—

The next thing she knew, Hecate was opening her eyes once again, to Morgana’s insistent hungry meow. She fed her to quieten the ridiculous beast, stomach turning slightly at the smell of her food. Morgana truly had her moments, but Hecate would not change her for the world.

There was nothing about today that was special, in her mind; she washed, dressed herself, and tied her hair into its usual bun as if it were just any other day. Even if she had wanted to dress up for the event that Ada had arranged, she had nothing particularly suitable to wear, other than the dress she wore for Samhain—but she had no desire to wear it. It was not an important occasion. It was simply the day that she was born, some years on.

Hecate took up her pocket watch, and wound it carefully. She felt incredibly emotional that she had almost given this away—had the dryads not taken pity on her, she would not have it today. Aside from tea with Ada, which was mostly thrust upon her—Hecate had one other birthday tradition. She clicked open the pocket watch, and called upon her favourite memories of her mother.

* * *

The marquee on the grounds had already raised a lot of excitement yesterday. Though the girls had been informed last week of its intended purpose—a celebration for the saving of the Founding Stone—one of the staff must have let the word _birthday_ slip. Ever since then, it had been a rambunctious, chaotic cat that could not be put back into the figurative bag.

The girls had been abuzz with conversation all week. By process of elimination—for they knew the dates of all the other teachers’ birthdays from endlessly bothering them about it until they wore them down—they deduced that it was Miss Hardbroom’s birthday. She was immediately swamped with questions about whether it truly was her birthday, and things that had often been asked of her in the past—what was her star sign, how old was she, and all kinds of disturbing queries about her favourite colour, favourite type of cake, and what would be her ideal gift. Hecate, as she always did when students asked personal questions of her, responded haughtily, “no comment,” not even deigning to grant eye contact.

Hecate dreaded going down to breakfast, now that the day of the event had arrived. In lieu of attracting too much attention—which was any attention at all—Hecate took tea in her own room alone, before settling down with some marking while her nerves still allowed her to concentrate.

It was about half past nine when Hecate exhausted any and all pieces of homework that she had set since the girls returned to normal lessons that week. She was almost disappointed that there was not more—but simultaneously realised that her mind felt distinctly stultified by some of the more appalling pieces of work they had produced. She wondered sometimes at the logic in interrupting a term with a holiday and unsettling the students’ discipline. There was always a marked uptick in their performance directly before the half-term report cards, as they realised too late that they were under assessment—as they always were—inevitably followed by a slump after they had had their holiday. She felt that consistency above all else always produced better results, but she had a feeling that Miss Cackle would not agree.

Hecate wondered if there was anything she could do to assist in the preparations—after all, if everyone was going to such trouble on her account, she might as well ease the burden on them. 

Not wishing to waste any more time, Hecate threw on a cloak and transferred a short distance away from where the marquee was set up. The wind was brisk—and sent down her spine a shiver that somewhat resembled the first hint of excitement—or more likely, anxiety—that Hecate had felt that day.

Hecate strode on, trying to convince herself that there was nothing about which she ought to be feeling anxious—until there—outside the marquee now, a few paces away—was Pippa, stretching her arms up towards a tree, levitating a string of magically-illuminated lights into the leafless boughs. She wore a snow-white coat trimmed with white fur against the bitter November air, making the off-white canvas of the marquee appear dull in contrast with herself. Her hair was loosely tied back into what was quite a simple style for Pippa, but she was no less spectacular for it. The lights settled into place. She flicked her finger to make some adjustments until all was perfect, according to whatever image it was that she held in her mind’s eye.

Hecate watched Pippa step back and smile at the effect, and wondered how long it would be before she should announce her presence—but then, her tall figure must have crept into Pippa’s peripheral, for she startled and gasped.

“Good morning, Pippa,” Hecate said awkwardly.

“Goodness—Hecate, you’re three _hours_ early!” Pippa exclaimed, “I haven’t even started on the weather yet, let alone—” Her cheeks were pink with embarrassment, and she ran her hand over her ponytail.

“I— wondered if there might be something I could help with,” Hecate muttered, immediately feeling unwelcome.

“This is meant to be _your_ birthday, Hecate,” Pippa said, exasperated, putting her hand to her forehead. “You’re meant to be relaxing— Look, could you give me fifteen minutes to finish up here—the caterer should be arriving soon, and then they’ll take over.” She let out a sigh. “I do need to give you your birthday present before I get ready, too.”

Just as Hecate was about to protest, the silver hair of Ada came out of the marquee opening, a smile on her face like a sunbeam in the dismal weather. “Oh Hecate, I thought I heard your voice—Pippa, why don’t you let me deal with the last few bits and pieces? I’m sure you have some preparations to be getting on with.”

Pippa frowned. “Are you sure? I feel like I’ve left you a lot to do.”

Ada shook her head, still smiling, as if no amount of work could phase her in the slightest. “Nonsense, my dear—why don’t you try to keep our birthday girl occupied for a little while to get her out of my hair, if you can.”

Pippa thanked her profusely, before handing her a checklist and talking her through everything in a voice too low for Hecate to hear.

Ada gave a slightly unconvincingly casual laugh, staring at the list, and said, “is that all?” before vanishing back into the marquee.

“Can we go up to your chambers?” Pippa asked Hecate, who was by now feeling incredibly guilty that she was causing problems with her presence and existence. “There’s something I’d like to give you.”

* * *

The last time Pippa had been in her chambers with her had been the time that Pippa had complained about her only having one armchair, after they had shared half a bottle of Verdicchio—it had seemed almost a lifetime ago, even though it was barely a week since.

Morgana gave a squeaky meow as soon as they materialised, but Pippa launched into a string of words before Hecate could even take a breath. “I’m sorry I was so— I just wanted everything to be _perfect_, and then you showed up when everything was so _imperfect_, and I—”

“Pippa,” Hecate stopped her rambling, undoing the clasp of her cloak and letting it dissipate from her hand and neatly reappear on the stand behind her. “Everything will be fine. I have nothing to which I can compare this, and therefore it will exceed all of my expectations.”

Pippa gave a weak smile of partial relief, unfastening her coat and hanging it beside Hecate’s cloak. “That’s _why_ I want this to go well for you. So maybe you’ll—want to share another of your birthdays with me.”

“That is not reliant on the perceived success of this occasion,” Hecate frowned. 

Pippa’s mouth twisted in an unreadable expression. “Well, happy birthday,” she said quietly, and indicated towards her dining table.

Upon the wooden surface was a large, flat black presentation box decorated with a silver silken ribbon—Hecate had her suspicions that some kind of garment might be within, considering its similarity to the box in which Ada had delivered her mended dress—at which a sense of dread and guilt came over her. 

“I hope you did not go to any trouble,” Hecate murmured, glancing at Pippa. 

Pippa shrugged and smiled. For a moment—in this light, Pippa seemed more vulnerable than Hecate had seen her in a while—but Hecate did not want to keep her waiting any longer.

The lid lifted smoothly off to show layers of crisp tissue paper. Hecate’s intrigue and worry were both spiked, for Pippa must have spent a great deal indeed if Hecate’s suspicions about the place Pippa had ordered this from were true.

As she folded back the sheaves of paper, Hecate saw a shimmering silk as dark as coal, embroidered all over with silver thread in elegant patterns. As she lifted it out of the display box, an anti-wrinkling charm rippled down the long skirt, revealing its full beauty.

_Silver._

Hecate’s mind spiralled back to when they had both attended the Leavers’ Ball. Hecate had felt bold enough to wear the silver dress that Miss Bat had kindly managed to procure for her—since she had no option to go out and purchase a gown for herself, and had been inclined to wear her formal black robes—for unlike the others, she would be remaining at Cackle’s. Dressing for the funeral of the life she could have had seemed appropriate.

_“Hecate,” Miss Bat had told her sternly, “this is your one last chance to shine with the rest of your cohort. You are a star pupil here—and you deserve to enjoy the ball just as much as anyone else.”_

_“I appreciate the gesture, Miss Bat, but I have very little to celebrate.”_

_Hecate remembered Miss Bat’s expression softening. “Even though it’s true that you’re not going off to the various witching colleges like your peers, that does not negate the extraordinary accolades you have achieved during your time here as a student. And you will go on to do great things here.”_

_Hecate had only held back her disagreement out of respect for her teacher._

_“Wear the dress. Give them something to remember you by, at the very least.”_

Miss Bat had not known about Mistress Broomhead’s cruelty to her; none of the staff was to know until well after the fact.

Hecate mentally shook the memory from her, wondering whether Pippa had intended this to be a nod to her Leavers’ Ball outfit—a poor choice if it had been, for that night had been unhappy for the both of them. Yet this dress had quite clearly much more elegance and poise than the dress Miss Bat had given her, which was modest in its cut—as was to the taste of the teenage Hecate. The neckline was lower than anything she had worn in years, and she was sure that the hem would show her ankles.

“This must have cost you a fortune,” Hecate whispered in admiration, as Morgana hopped up onto the table and took up her place in the box amidst the crinkling paper.

“I have so many years of birthdays to catch up on,” Pippa said, her cheeks glowing. “Do you like it?”

Hecate touched the fabric gently. “It is beautiful.”

“But— do _you_ like it, Hecate? It’s all right if you don’t. I can have it altered—”

“I do,” Hecate said, looking up to meet Pippa’s soft brown eyes. 

“Oh, I’m so— relieved,” Pippa burst out, wiping a tear delicately away from her eye. “I don’t suppose you would want to—wear it today?”

Hecate’s voice faltered slightly. “May I?”

Pippa put her hand on Hecate’s shoulder. “It’s yours. You can wear it whenever you like.”

Hecate draped the dress carefully over her arm to protect it from the floor, and took it through to her bedroom, before closing the door. She hung the dress from her wardrobe door—and sat heavily on her bed, worry clawing at her—-but she knew she could not do so for long, because Pippa was out there, waiting for her. If she took too long, she might wonder what Hecate was doing. 

Hecate would normally have changed into a different outfit with magic, but she was afraid of accidentally damaging this dress—in case it did not fit. Pippa had clearly had this made for her, since the proportions seemed correct. She first removed her pocket watch, laying it carefully on the dressing table, and her shoes, and transferred her old clothes off—leaving them on the bed for now in case she had to change back into them. She unfastened the buttons down the back of the dress, and stepped into it.

The material was like a revelation of fabric. Most of the clothes she had were made primarily for functionality—while there was definitely an aesthetic she tended towards, the fabric itself was not always the most comfortable. It was a trade-off. This, however, was smooth and soft inside and out—it embraced rather than covered her body. She could see herself full-length in the wardrobe mirror—and, when she pinched the back together, she could tell that the dress fitted perfectly, but—her throat—her collarbone—her bra straps—were visible. 

For that last aspect, luckily she had a solution. After investigating her underwear drawer, she found a black satin overbust corset that would suffice. She quickly changed into it, lacing herself securely in, comforted by the back support it offered. She was still self-conscious about the boat neck, but at least she was wearing the appropriate undergarments that—entirely by chance—she thought improved the appearance of her figure.

Try as she might, the buttons proved too fiddly to do up without being able to see them. She again did not wish to attempt to risk using magic, so she had one option remaining. Hecate opened the door a crack to see Pippa, crouched on the floor of her sitting room, stroking and cooing over Morgana. She did not wish to interrupt the scene, but she could hardly go about undone—the dress was falling forwards from her shoulders as it was, and her hands were the only thing holding it in place.

“Pippa, could you—help me with the buttons?”

Pippa looked up and smiled. “Of course.” She rose to her feet gracefully and approached the door to Hecate’s bedroom. Her lack of reaction at this request only made Hecate more self-conscious over the embarrassment she was experiencing over it.

Hecate was still clutching the front of the dress to her chest, blushing as she realised that of course Pippa would now be able to see her collarbone. She had often worn a corset before, but not for a while—her free shoulders made her feel as though her bra straps had fallen down, which was an incredibly distracting thing to be feeling in front of Pippa.

Pippa brushed past her slightly as she entered the room, and Hecate shyly stood, unable to move, clinging the loose front of the dress to herself. Hecate could hear Pippa’s intake of breath as she took in the sight of Hecate in the dress she had chosen for her.

“H—Hecate, you— you look gorgeous,” Pippa stammered, her cheeks pink.

Hecate remained rooted to the spot, still trying to preserve her dignity somewhat. She did not realise until Pippa had reacted that this situation might have been significant. 

“The buttons—”

“Yes, of course—” Pippa circled around to her back, and it was at that point that Hecate realised that Pippa would be able to see her corset. Pippa had seen her in her bra, when she had examined her wound from the Blight—this time should seem different owing to the celebratory circumstances—but Hecate still felt the same sense of shame that she had felt before. She still felt that Pippa was seeing her wounded somehow.

A sweet golden scent wafted over her as Pippa drew near, and Hecate had to concentrate intently on anything—potions ingredient lists—student performance forms—and not on the shifting of the fabric behind her—the feel of fingers fastening buttons—the knowledge that her back and corset were on display to Pippa. 

“How does it feel?”

“It fits better than anything else I own,” Hecate responded, certain Pippa did not mean how it felt to have her doing up her buttons.

“I thought I would have to guess your measurements,” Pippa said, a smile evident from her tone. “But I realised that Ada had sent your dress to be mended. I— contacted the tailor and consulted them to see if they would make you this based on the measurements from your other dress.”

Hecate inhaled sharply as Pippa reached the buttons above the line of the corset. “I am impressed. That is certainly a clever way of ensuring a good fit.”

They said nothing more as Pippa did up the final buttons. Why were there so _many_, Hecate wondered, hoping the torture would be over soon. At last, she felt the top edge of the dress come together, and then just as quickly, changed her tune—she wished that there were yet more buttons so that less of her skin was exposed.

“Hecate, you look _gorgeous_,” Pippa said emotionally, leading her gently to the full-length mirror on the wardrobe door.

Hecate saw herself properly for the first time—she was holding herself differently, owing to the corset—but it was the fabric gleaming in shining folds and the intricacy of the silver thread that really stood out. She felt as though the dress were wearing her, but she did not wish to upset Pippa. She did not dislike it—she just felt that it was more beautiful than she could ever hope to be.

“Is there anything else I can help you with? Hair? Makeup?”

Hecate blushed. She had already done both of these things that morning, but she felt that Pippa possibly had different expectations when it came to presentation at events such as this. “Is what I have done insufficient?” 

“No, you look fine—more than fine, really.”

Hecate was not entirely convinced by Pippa’s words, but she hardly was about to press the issue when the alternative meant more prolonged intimacy with Pippa that she felt too delicate to handle at that moment.

“Hecate, I have something to admit to you—” Pippa bit her lip, and Hecate felt her heart skip a beat. “You can’t have failed to notice those times that you woke up to find your hair plaited.”

Hecate caught her eye in the mirror. “I knew it was you,” she murmured. “You were the only one who could have been there both times.”

Hecate had let this conversation go unspoken for so long. It was partly that she was worried that Pippa had found her Hairpin of Straightness and taken it out—only to discover what it was for and put it back where it belonged, but she felt sure that Pippa would have been unable to keep such a thing to herself for so long.

Pippa looked off to one side, arms folded in a stiff, un-Pippa-like fashion. “The first time it was out of some necessity. When you fell— I needed to get the soil and debris out—by magic, of course—and since your hair is so long, I thought you would rather wake up with it neat rather than loose so it wouldn’t get tangled.”

“And the second time?” Hecate asked, surprised by her own directness.

“That was because I— You were so upset after that treatment that I couldn’t sleep. I came into your room after you had fallen asleep and I wanted to care for you—in the same way that I had been able to after what happened at Mabon. And— well— you read my letter, so you know that I—” 

Pippa broke off. Hecate realised with a jolt that Pippa had meant that she had done it out of her unresolved feelings for Hecate—because of course she still was heart-broken over her. Indeed, the way she had reacted when she had thought Hecate had been kissing Miss Nightscribe—if she still experienced such intensity of jealousy, those feelings were very far from being over.

“I know it wasn’t right— it wasn’t consensual. I remember, even when we were young, you wouldn’t— you never let me touch your hair. I should have respected that.”

Hecate was embarrassed to have her aversion to having her hair touched laid bare in so many words in front of her—but also relieved that Pippa had apologised for something that she had felt uneasy over for some time, even if she had not actively considered it or held it against Pippa.

Hecate only regretted that she had not been awake to experience Pippa’s gentle touch, for although Mistress Broomhead and—less distinctly, the memory of her mother—were her only points of comparison, Hecate imagined it would have been far less painful, and perhaps even— pleasurable.

“Pippa—” Hecate turned away from the mirror to face Pippa. She could not say this through a reflection. But— what was it that she wanted to say? She hesitated. She knew encouraging Pippa’s feelings was the wrong course of action—even though everything in her wanted nothing more than to sink into her arms, as she had done after the attack on the castle.

“Yes?” Pippa’s eyes widened.

“There is no harm done.” She was fighting the urge to tell her more of how she felt, but it would do no good at all.

“That’s such a relief,” Pippa said, exhaling in relief. “I hope you don’t hold it against me.”

“I have some concerns about how heavy a sleeper I am, but nothing more serious than that,” Hecate commented, to lighten the mood slightly.

Pippa gave a subdued laugh. “I don’t expect you’d want me to do your hair after that.”

“Not today.”

Pippa’s eyes lit up with hope. “Then, sometime?”

Hecate inclined her head. She intended to say something vague, prevaricate as she usually did—but instead, what she said was— “Yes.” 

She turned to go to the dressing table, partly to retrieve her pocket watch, and partly to hide her face as she thought about the implications of what she had just said—but Pippa was beside her, so close that Hecate could smell her perfume again.

Pippa’s hand trembled—she reached towards Hecate’s pocket watch on the dressing table, but she withdrew it. Hecate realised she must have wanted to help her to put it on.

Hecate took up the pocket watch, and instead of putting it on herself—for she could easily find the clasp herself without looking, after decades of practice—instead she cupped under Pippa’s hand, and let the chain pool into her open palm, before placing the watch there, covering it over with her hand. Her heart skipped several beats at the sensation of her skin on Pippa’s.

“Would you—?”

Pippa’s fingers curled over Hecate’s hand. Hecate was paralysed with the feeling of their connected hands, and it took her a moment to retract her own from Pippa’s.

“Thank you,” Pippa whispered, “for trusting me.”

Hecate sat in the chair—for she knew she was slightly too tall for Pippa to be able to reach easily. Pippa undid the clasp, before standing behind her and passing it over her head. Hecate held the swinging watch pendant still, while the chain snaked against her bare neck. Pippa’s hands were so close—she could feel a slight tingling—her fingers must have accidentally brushed against her wispy neck hairs. She prepared for another touch, stiffening her muscles against the anticipated contact, lest she should be caught unawares and flinch. She did not want Pippa to think that she deliberately shied away from her touch—even if she did—but no further touch came. The chain settled against her skin, and Hecate was almost regretful that Pippa had not followed with a comforting touch to her shoulder, unprotected and naked. Ever since Pippa had slipped her bra strap off her shoulder when she was examining her wound, she had had the desperate, yet shameful hope that she might feel that very sensation once again.

However, Pippa was being respectful—after all, they had only just had that conversation over consent—and for this, Hecate was eminently grateful. Her respect of her boundaries only made Hecate long even more for her, now she was sure that Pippa would not attempt anything with which Hecate was uncomfortable, and treat her with the utmost respect.

“Right. I should possibly be fighting that headwind back to Pentangle’s,” Pippa said, glancing at Hecate through the mirror’s reflection with a distracted look. “I have to get myself ready—and have to pick up some guests.”

* * *

Pippa’s departure left Hecate alone with her thoughts for several hours. The event was not due to commence for a while. Hecate had hoped to get some research—or at the very least, reading done—but that conversation with Pippa had her glowing with the possibilities that could be in their near future. She touched her hand to her pocket watch chain where Pippa’s hands had been and shivered. 

Hecate knew she ought not arrive early, since she had already been instructed to keep away after wanting to help that morning. She had already completed her marking, and now let herself drift in and out of the memory of the sensations she had experienced that morning at the hands of Pippa Pentangle, while holding a book open near her face so that she could pretend to herself that she was doing something productive.

Trying to convince one’s familiar to refrain from taking up her favourite position on one’s lap because one was wearing a highly intricate dress was virtually an impossibility, so Hecate resigned herself to anxiously worrying that Morgana would decide to sink her claws through the fabric and ruin the dress before she had had a chance to even wear it in front of other people. Morgana nuzzled against the smooth drape of the silk.

At the last minute, Hecate realised that she would have to choose which shoes to go with her dress on her own, since Pippa was far away in Pentangle’s, quite probably still getting herself ready. She suspected that Pippa would love to receive a mirror call asking for her opinion on Hecate’s shoe dilemma, but the thought set her heart racing. She opted for a pair of black kitten heels—her usual boots felt too heavy for this particular dress—and there was precious little else she had that was suitable for occasionwear that did not look too pedestrian. Hecate wondered what had happened to her earlier thought that this was just another ordinary day—but knew it had everything to do with Pippa.

Her watch ticked ever closer to twelve—and with each progression of the hands, Hecate felt her desire to attend waning. She doubted anyone would miss her—even at her own _birthday party_—when invitations had been sent to guests of far greater importance than she. While Hecate had been reluctant on the Great Wizard, Ada had said it was courteous to offer the most prestigious wizard in Britain—although Hecate thought this estimation arguable—a chance to congratulate them on their saving of a Founding Stone. Should he grace them with his presence, most of the attention would be on him, rather than Hecate.

Just as Hecate was despairing over the prospect of seeing the Great Wizard on today of all days, Morgana butted her head against Hecate’s leg, spreading loose fur all over her stockings immediately.

“Why I cannot simply remain here with you is beyond me,” Hecate sighed to her familiar, leaning down to stroke her. “But my attendance will—allegedly—please others, so there is nothing to be done.”

Morgana blinked her eyes at Hecate—a gesture which she returned.

Hecate calculated the precise time it would take to walk and weighed this up against instantly transferring. The thought of walking through the castle in her present outfit and being caught by a student made her feel ill—and she was sure that walking across the grounds in her outfit might only attract more attention than she cared to receive. It was an exercise in procrastination, and she knew it.

Hecate stood reluctantly, and gave her clothing a stringent clean with a spell to remove any cat hair. On retrieving her cloak from the stand by her door, she caught sight of herself in the mirror by her bureau across the room—her hair and makeup did look awfully plain, and her face was cast in a greyish light that made her feel as though she had aged a decade. She almost wished she had taken Pippa up on her offer to assist her in that matter—but the thought of Pippa so intimately close was far too much. 

Hecate approached the mirror and passed her black-taloned hand over her face to cast a glamour, to put the slightest amount of colour in her cheeks, change her lipstick to a deeper red, and make her eyeliner wing sharper and more distinct. She surveyed the effect—deciding that she felt ludicrous, and dispelled it. Immediately, the pallid face she had seen before returned—and thinking how awful she would look next to Pippa, she recast the spell. It was true that vanity was unbecoming in a witch—but moreso was insecurity.

With her hair—she had no idea how to effect any style other than the simplest bun or plait—and it was far too late to do anything about it now. Her projected time of arrival if she transferred down now would put her at seven minutes before twelve, which was an acceptable medium between being ‘too early’—although Hecate herself did not believe in such a concept—and what she would call late—for to be on time would be late.

Hecate fussed over the way that her cloak fastened at her throat—usually she had a substantial collar underneath that would aid in its positioning, but presently, there was only the bare skin of her shoulders. She knew she was only delaying the inevitable—so she raised her hand and transferred herself just outside the marquee.

* * *

Brightness and a slightly unseasonable warmth enveloped her once she rematerialised outside. The trees around the marquee were woven with softly glowing magical lights; even in the light of day, they brought a strange sense of delight to Hecate—but she suspected this had something to do with the fact that when she saw them, she thought of how she had seen Pippa smiling up at them earlier, satisfied with her work.

Hecate stepped nervously up to the marquee’s entrance, passing through a tunnel of the same magical lights wound in an arch over her. A young witch with a tired but welcoming smile hailed her from what appeared to be some kind of cloakroom to her left, and offered to take her cloak. Hecate unclasped the heavy winter cloak and passed it over—as soon as she did, the witch complimented her on her dress, at which Hecate wondered if perhaps she had been informed what Hecate would be wearing and instructed to do so, since it felt unlikely that she would have done so of her own volition.

The absence of pink in the room told her that Pippa had not yet arrived, which was predictable—she liked to make an entrance, and be noticed—she could hardly do that when the room was empty—although the marquee was already surprisingly bustling. Even as she thought this, Hecate chided herself. She had better be a little more charitable—Pippa also was picking up some guests from Pentangle’s, so it was plausible that she had been waiting on them—plausible, but not quite as likely as the image Hecate had in her head of Pippa taking hours to getting ready, as she had done as a teenager. It was a celebration of her, as well—and Hecate had never known Pippa to pass up a chance to look fabulous.

Off to one side was a seating area with comfortable-looking wingback chairs and sofas, mostly occupied already by some of the older guests. Hecate would never opt to sit at an event like this—such groups could be difficult to extricate oneself from, should conversation turn to the dull or irritating—and she would rather stand stiffly in a corner where she had the freedom to observe everything about her or flee at a moment’s notice without having to explain herself.

There was an abundance of food about—tables laid with an elegant spread, arranged in spirals, perfectly spaced grids, and pyramids, or carried by waiters on hovering plates. Closest to her were tea sandwiches with all manner of fillings—rectangular cucumber sandwiches, with wafer-thin membranes of cucumber layered between soft white bread—triangles of houmous and roasted vegetable on rye—circles of tangy sourdough bore crunchy cheddar of a strong vintage and sharp pickle—perfect squares of egg and cress—and mushroom and tarragon pâté cut into stars.

The smell of the sandwiches suddenly made Hecate aware of the fact that she was quite hungry—however, before she could consider taking a plate, a waiter swooped upon her with flutes of sparkling wine and she was too bewildered to refuse. She realised too late that she could not now take a plate without putting the glass down, which she was hesitant to do—the social rules were not clear to her. She supposed she could to satisfy herself with a single tiny sandwich—although no one else seemed to be eating anything at the moment, so she backed away from the food table so as not to spoil the perfect plate arrangements and glanced around for Ada, or indeed, any of the guests she had invited.

All the staff at Cackle’s had received invitations, of course, even though Hecate had not wanted them to know the date of her birthday. Dimity was around, but seemed to be very occupied already with entertaining those who had flocked to her charismatic personality. Gwendolyn was by an enchanted piano, frowning to herself as if she could not decide whether to be insulted or not that she had not been asked to play.

Across the other side of the marquee, was Miss Nightscribe. She was one of the guests of honour, but one would not know it to look at her. Hecate was surprised, however, that Miss Nightscribe had chosen to attend, for she and Ada had not heard back from her about any supplementary guests she wanted to invite—even more surprised, in fact, to see that the plus one she had brought was a taller, older woman with had dark, wild hair, wearing ripped black jeans, a t-shirt with the sleeves hacked off, and a flannel shirt tied low on her waist. Hecate suddenly felt rather well-groomed.

Hecate supposed she ought to be hospitable towards Miss Nightscribe, despite her odd choice of guest—or at least not prolong the awkwardness of having a conversation with her today. Hecate reluctantly made her way over, excusing herself past several groups of witches and wizards.

“Miss Nightscribe. Thank you for coming,” Hecate said stiffly, at once realising that she had accidentally exhausted all of her conversation options.

“Thank you for inviting me, Miss Hardbroom,” Miss Nightscribe responded in an equally polite tone. The scruffy-looking woman took a large gulp of sparkling wine. “Oh— this is my sister, Justine.”

Hecate blinked in surprise—Justine was as unlike the younger Miss Nightscribe as she could be. Hecate raised her hand to her forehead in the common greeting. “Well met. I am Hecate Hardbroom, Deputy Headmistress of Cackle’s.”

“Hecate Hardbroom, huh,” Justine repeated, greeting her in response, and raising an eyebrow in intrigue. “I’m Justine Nightscribe. You might have heard of my band, Cat Attack.”

Hecate raised her own eyebrow, but in quite a different manner. “I cannot say that I have.”

“Really?” Justine looked taken quite off-guard, as did the younger Miss Nightscribe. “We were pretty big. Still are. I actually went to Weirdsister with Pippa Pentangle. She came to a few of my gigs, back in our uni days.”

“Did she indeed,” Hecate said, sounding more troubled than interested. That must have meant that Justine was around the same age as she. She marvelled even more at her unconventional clothing, and hoped that Miss Nightscribe, who was in one of her crisply tailored suits, with her hair swept back from her forehead in a stylish pompadour, had accidentally neglected to inform her of the dress code, rather than this being a deliberate act of rebellion against it.

Just then, a frisson of excitement spread throughout the room. Hecate looked around her, as did the Miss Nightscribes and many of the other guests—expecting to see the Great Wizard, but taking in the full sight of Pippa instead. Her breath caught in her throat to see her, which she hoped neither of the Miss Nightscribes heard.

Not a trace of pink was to be seen—for indeed, she was decked in head to foot in a shimmering white and gold silk gown, which was almost the mirror image of the dress she herself was wearing. In her hair were two golden clasps like gilded leaves holding back the sides, while the back hung freely over her shoulders. She was radiant in her youthful beauty—while Hecate knew that she was aged merely by her staidness. Even though it had been a few hours since she had seen her, she was virtually a lifetime away from the casual Pippa she had seen that morning. 

At Pippa’s side there was a tall, dark-haired witch in a green robe, with her hair in a high bun rather like her own—whom Hecate recognised as the librarian at Pentangle’s, Mercy Whistlemoon. Pippa was touching her arm. She said a few words to Miss Whistlemoon as the guests parted before her. For a moment, Hecate thought she was hallucinating, but she was not—Pippa Pentangle was really standing next to a witch who resembled her physically, except much more pretty—and Pippa was wearing _that_ dress—gold to Hecate’s silver, just as she had done at the Leavers’ Ball.

The bundle of anxiety in Hecate’s chest reached imploding point. Why was Pippa doing this again? She thought Pippa had finished with trying to outclass her in everything that she did—and she had certainly made sure she appeared superior to Hecate today. After all, she had arranged this entire event—invited most of the guests—brought a gorgeous witch with her—and given Hecate the second-place silver gown so she could shine brighter than her, just as she always did. 

Out of the corner of her eye, Hecate saw Pippa’s expression light up as she noticed her and gave an energetic wave. But Hecate had already turned—had already walked away from the Miss Nightscribes, and followed a different circle of discussion over to the drinks table—plunging herself into the icy waters of the voices around her asking her questions, until, with relief, she saw Pippa accosted by some old friends.

Hecate could not fathom why Pippa had brought Miss Whistlemoon. She had hoped that Pippa might have come alone—that she would be there just for Hecate—that Pippa and she would retire at the first possibility to Hecate’s chambers, warm and inviting, and enjoy a quiet cup of tea and a game of chess, just how it used to be. She should have known better. All that nonsense this morning—Pippa was only being friendly, in her own touchy-feely way. Yet, Hecate felt, grimly, that she must not hold Pippa back from pursuing healthy romantic relationships with those who deserved her affections more than she, since she knew she could never offer Pippa what she would want. If only Pippa would not do that with witches who looked just like _her_.

After suffering through the conversation with her chosen group of people—she knew none of them by sight or name, other than that they were all invited by Ada—to deter Pippa from talking to her, Hecate made pleading eye contact with Ada across the room, who seemed to notice her plight.

Ada eventually managed to extricate herself from a conversation that had looked quite lively, and met Hecate, holding a decorative glass of juice while hovering her plate next to her—which Hecate noted was evidently the done thing if one wanted to eat at occasions such as this.

“All right, Hecate?”

“There are an awful lot of people here,” Hecate commented as Ada led them to a quieter part of the marquee.

“Yes,” Ada frowned. “I think I rather underestimated how many of my friends would respond. And I think Pippa invited all her staff, and most of the people she knows—which of course she was welcome to do—and many of them brought someone.”

“She is in her element,” Hecate remarked. “Did the Great Wizard say he would be in attendance?”

“He cannot make it, but is sending a representative from the Magic Council,” Ada sighed. “Don’t take it as a slight on you, my dear. Inviting him was more of a courtesy than a hope that he would actually turn up.”

“On the contrary—I am relieved that I do not have to make polite conversation with him.”

Hecate had not even seen the desserts table behind the crowds of guests, but it was laden with all kinds of wonders—bite-sized scones with clotted cream and jam—brownies adorned with raspberry hats—tiny cubes of sticky toffee pudding—spheres of mini doughnuts iced in virtually every colour under the sun—

“Why is Ms Hubble here?” Hecate asked Ada in a sharp undertone, as she spied the curly-haired mother of Mildred Hubble talking with Dimity.

“I believe,” Ada responded, with a playful smile, “that Julie is here at the personal invitation of Dimity.”

Hecate’s eyes widened in confusion. “I was not aware that they were overly acquainted.”

“Julie came with us on the school trip, you see,” Ada explained. “And she and Dimity became close. Rather more than close, you might say.”

Hecate almost choked on her drink. She recalled seeing the two of them sharing a broomstick, but had not given it much thought, considering that she assumed this was wholly down to Ms Hubble’s inability to fly and Dimity’s broom control making her the best suited for the job. If a witch like Dimity should have to have a romantic relationship with a non-magical person, that non-magical person _could_ at least be someone with a magical daughter, she _supposed_. It did not seem quite as scandalous under those circumstances.

“Did anything else of note happen of which I should be made aware?”

“The usual troubles with the girls,” Ada sighed. “Disagreements about not having their first choice of friends in their tents, Mildred Hubble and Ethel Hallow clashing, stroppy fourth years, the first year tents challenging each other to stay up all night—”

“It sounds like it went exactly how I imagined it would,” Hecate said, with a sigh that was somewhere between sympathy and relief.

“We did have some jolly good toasted marshmallows, though. Nothing you would approve of, of course.”

“It must have been quite the adventure.” Hecate said, her eyes training on where Pippa was still standing with Mercy Whistlemoon.

“Next time we’ll hold it somewhere on the mountain,” Ada winked at her. “You can experience all the adventure for yourself.”

As Hecate was about to summon the energy for a witty retort, Miss Whistlemoon caught her eye from where she and Pippa were standing with Miss Nightscribe and her sister. Pippa was embracing Justine and kissed her on the cheek, before whispering something in her ear that made her laugh. Hecate found she had quite lost her appetite for wit.

* * *

Hecate’s strength was restored when she saw Hextilda Amethyst arrive, predictably late. Immediately, an overly eager wizard descended upon her—whom she tried to shoo away like a plume of smoke from a cauldron. She sighed visibly as he tried to offer her a drink from a nearby waiter, and ended up transferring him out of her sight. Hecate wondered if she had had the foresight to ensure he was transferred to solid ground and not into a body of water, or halfway up a tree.

As soon as she saw Hecate, she marched over, garbed in a bundle of shawls made from glowing silken threads, with real mushrooms were sprouting from the brim of her hat and spiralling up to the point.

“Hecate Hardbroom,” Hextilda said, in what Hecate thought sounded like an irritated tone. “I read the report you gave to the Magic Council.”

“You did?” Hecate said, shrinking back ever so slightly.

“Bend down to my level. I can’t hear you all the way up there,” Hextilda snapped.

As soon as Hecate lowered herself to her level, Hextilda tapped her hard on the head with her walking stick. 

“That’s what you get for almost giving up your precious memories—and to who? A bunch of angry spoilt dryads who would have took one look at them and squirrelled them away somewhere without considering how great a sacrifice it was for you.”

Hecate winced. The chastisement was worse than the throbbing spot on her head. A few of the guests looked over, but when they saw that Miss Amethyst was the instigator, they returned to their conversations. Hextilda was renowned for her eccentricities.

“I thought I was doing what was best for the school—”

“Psh! At least they had the sense to give it back.” Hextilda turned an ornery eye up to Hecate. “Happy birthday, by the way.” 

“Thank you,” Hecate said warily. 

Hextilda cast her analytical eye over her. “Are you enjoying the celebration they’ve put on for you? You can tell me.”

Hecate lowered her voice. “There are a few too many people here for my liking. Ada and Pippa thought the guest list too small.”

“I’m afraid I did invite someone, but she doesn’t seem to have turned up yet. At a guess she’s probably lost her way completely. Ah well, she’ll turn up, I’m sure.”

Hecate was not quite sure how to react to this.

“The good thing about these events is that there’s always a lot of nibbles. If anyone really irritating comes to talk to you, just put something in your mouth and walk off. I do that every time I see Egbert Hellibore.”

* * *

Hecate side-stepped one of the caterers and silently stole out of the fabric archway, before passing under the tunnel of warm white lights, ignoring the cloakroom witch, and escaping outside into the bright daylight.

She had just excused herself from her conversation with the newest editor of the _Cauldron Review_, wishing she could have followed Hextilda’s advice and shoved a miniature pumpkin tart into her mouth and brushed her off—particularly since that editor was her old classmate, who had been recently promoted. Even more galling was the fact that she regularly submitted articles to the _Cauldron Review_, and it was to Poppy Pokeweed that she would have to send future articles for approval. She was intellectually spoken in an unpleasant, derisive manner, and especially scathing on the matter of Hecate’s profession.

“_Why are you still teaching schoolgirls to levitate frogs? You have a brilliant mind—at least, that’s what everyone knew you for at school—you could have a much more lucrative career if you directed your capabilities towards full-time research, or at the very least, teaching at a witching university. I hardly thought Cackle’s was a pleasant environment for you. Why didn’t you ever move on?_”

That was precisely the sort of comment of which Hecate had been afraid, and why she had wanted a small, controllable guest list consisting solely of those she knew would never ask her about something so private. She had wished someone she trusted would have been there to be a buffer between her and the onslaught of questions. 

Ada would have known what to say—something uplifting on the importance of having the best and brightest educators for enabling young witches to reach their fullest potential—but Ada was not there. Hecate had looked for her, and instead—had discovered the sight of Pippa by the drinks table, introducing Miss Whistlemoon to Ada and her various friends, all of whom had connections with whom Pippa no doubt wanted her latest conquest to mix, to raise her social profile to Pippa’s level.

At that point, Hecate had realised she could slip out easily without being noticed. She was unimportant—no one would miss her or her lack of interesting conversation.

Now she was standing outside the marquee, breathing heavily as she attempted to calm herself down. She materialised her heavy winter cloak out of the air—for the dress Pippa had given her offered little in the way of protection from the cold, and she did not fancy going back in to ask for it from the cloakroom witch—and felt its weight fold around her comfortingly, like armour against the world outside her. With her collar bone covered once more, she started to feel a little more protected and secure in herself. Without a look back at the marquee, Hecate transferred herself to the ruins of the old castle she could just see over the hillock ahead.

Her form dissipated, and reconnected within the crumbling walls. All seemed much more at peace here—a crow alighted on the stone just ahead of her, and she was relieved to feel a cold breeze whipping around her, biting under her cloak. The weather spell was less strong here; her ankles ached as the chill set in around her bones, but in a way that strangely comforted her.

Hecate closed her eyes and sat on the most even of the stones half-buried in the grass, mulling Pippa over in her mind’s eye. She had much to consider. Firstly, and most disturbingly, was what she had confessed to the false Pippa—what the illusionist now knew about her—

_“You said in your letter that you never recovered from me leaving you. Well, I— I did not either. Leaving you was something I did out of necessity—not out of desire. But it would have destroyed you, Pippa, if you had known the truth—”_

—Hecate’s heart hammered as she thought about her foolishness in daring to voice this, let alone trusting the recipient of her words to have been Pippa. The information on how their feud was mending, and the feelings she had been holding back—this could easily be used against either Pippa or Hecate, and was now in the wrong hands—and the fact that the illusionist was still at large meant that even now, someone could be devising a way to sow distrust.

That troubling matter aside, her closeness to Pippa had been developing towards something more concrete that Hecate had been trying to avoid entirely. She had been so different that morning—she had almost been convinced that intimacy had been on Pippa’s mind—and she had looked so casual and guileless when Hecate had first saw her by the marquee, where she had been making arrangements for goodness knew how long. It had been so long since she had seen Pippa without her usual makeup. 

Hecate had been close to telling her that morning—perhaps what she had told the illusionist, or a hint of it. Everything had seemed so simple when they had been effectively living together in Westwood Lodge—when Hecate had waited for her to return from Pentangle’s each day—when she would wait to listen for Princess’s hooves on the path outside, and put on the kettle to greet her with a pot of tea. Part of her had been _ready_ to confess her feelings to the real Pippa. Part of her had wanted Pippa to know that it was not lack of love that had driven them apart.

Now everything was again complicated and confusing. Her gift to Hecate—the dress that recalled the silver and gold dresses of their youth that she had carefully encouraged Hecate to wear—why did she wish to bring up that moment between them?

However, Miss Whistlemoon’s presence provided Hecate with the perspective she needed—Pippa needed someone in her life who could truly be _in_ her life. She had always been such a tactile person—giving little touches whenever she could to anyone in her acquaintance. There was no chance that—in the instance that she and Hecate embark upon a romantic relationship—she could be satisfied with only seeing Hecate at Cackle’s or on the mirror.

For a short time, she had almost felt as though saving the school together could have broken through her determination to keep Pippa away from her—but, as she now reminded herself—she was confined to the castle and its grounds. There was no way around it—no more did she wish for there to be a loophole or solution that would grant her freedom. She deserved this life—she was used to this life—and there was no hope of relief from it.

Even though it would be possible to free Indigo Moon from _her_ stone prison, Hecate was unsure whether she would still be alive after being turned from flesh to stone, and back to flesh again. If she survived the process, there was no telling of how destructive a force of magic she was still possessed, and indeed, no evidence either way of whether she would simply be slowly, painfully consumed by stone once the magic overwhelmed her Ordinary self again. 

Her own punishment had primarily been about perspective, and now that she had had it, she understood why it was necessary. No, she would never leave—but nor did she wish to. While it was unfortunate that she could not leave, it rarely caused her an inconvenience—she had a fulfilling life at Cackle’s, with a job for which she still had a passion after several decades. She could conduct and publish her research remotely, and had made a modest name for herself outside of her reputation as one of the best potions mistresses in the country. Not many could boast of her talents and of such satisfaction with life.

The only issue arose when it came to interpersonal relationships outside of the castle. She could never provide a sufficient excuse for her inability to attend conferences, coven meetings, visit other schools. Were anything to arise between herself and Pippa, Hecate would always be passive in this relationship, waiting for Pippa to visit her, reliant on her to make time in her schedule for her. Hecate would always have to be grateful, because Pippa would be the one making the sacrifices to accommodate her. Just like Pippa had buttoned Hecate into this dress that she had designed and chosen for her—she would be merely a doll in whatever fantasy Pippa had in her head about their relationship.

Hecate knew she could not keep meandering endlessly between wanting to hold Pippa in her arms again and needing to close off and push her away. But she still felt that pining for someone in her arms, and the only person who would do was—Pippa. She wrapped her hands loosely around her own elbows, partly out of the fact that it was far from warm, partly out of her own neediness—it was of little comfort on either front.

Hecate would have to make a decision. She thought she had decided before—to support Pippa and be her friend—yet this seemed completely untenable, if Hecate would go to pieces at the first indication of her dating another witch.

She was resolved. After this event, quietly and gradually, she would once more cut herself away from Pippa Pentangle. Her longing for her belonged to another place—another time. Pippa had made it clear by bringing Mercy Whistlemoon that she was now ready to move on, and Hecate must move on, too. 

“Hecate?”

Hecate opened her eyes, heart clamouring against her lungs—throat tight— she knew whose voice it was, and it was the very last voice she wanted to hear at that moment.

“Pippa.”

“Are you—just getting some air?” Pippa’s voice came uneasily.

Hecate said nothing.

“I thought you would be happy to see me,” Pippa said, sounding ever so slightly put out.

“I am pleased that you have been enjoying yourself,” Hecate replied in a hollow voice. “Your guests have livened what might have been a very sedate gathering.”

An awkward moment passed in which Pippa did not respond. It was clear that she could tell something was awry with Hecate—and a look of guilt crossed her brow.

“Do you like my dress? It’s— I had it made at the same time as yours—”

“—It’s lovely,” Hecate said, perhaps a little too quickly. She could tell that Pippa was trying her utmost not to respond to any of Hecate’s jabs.

“You’ve hardly looked at it,” Pippa said, hurt resounding in her voice.

“I do not need to look at your dress to know that it becomes you well,” Hecate said as plainly as possible, desperate not to let her emotions show. “Your taste in clothing is—has always been—exquisite.”

“I hoped that we could wear them together—put the past behind us, as it were. You know I—never intended to upstage you back then, don’t you? I just wanted to be able to stand next to you—so everyone else could see us, as equals—together.”

It all sounded so _nice_ when Pippa said it, but Hecate’s stomach was still churning with jealousy. “Where is Miss Whistlemoon?”

Pippa gave a nonchalant shrug. “I left her talking to Mattie Nightscribe. I thought they would get on.” 

Hecate narrowed her eyes as she gazed over the forest, her eyelashes blinking against the bright sky. 

“Remember, I said that I would try to set them up together, so she would stop pining over you?”

Realisation dawned on Hecate. Of course. She had entirely forgotten. Pippa had indeed mentioned that. After all that had happened, it was difficult to recall everything about Pippa’s visit—trying to think back on the small details that she wished she could have treasured was like attempting to catch vapour rising from a cauldron with nothing but one’s bare hands.

Mercy Whistlemoon was not Pippa’s date—she was Mattie Nightscribe’s. How could Hecate have been so foolish as to assume that just because Hecate had come with her that she was _with_ Pippa?

Pippa’s dark brown eyes were alight with the low angle of the autumnal sun. “Were you— worried she was my date?”

Why did everything have to become so much more complicated when Pippa was near to her? All her icy decisiveness melted almost as soon as she saw Pippa’s eyes—felt her softness—

“Certainly not,” Hecate returned, turning her head so that Pippa would not see the lie. “It is your celebration too—and the invitation made it clear that you could bring whomever you wished with you.”

“Hecate— you know I would never—”

Pippa stopped speaking as Hecate held up a sudden hand. She had caught sight of a shimmer close to the marquee, and pointed one of her bony fingers to show her discovery to Pippa.

“A poor invisibility spell—students, most likely—but I need to make a closer inspection.”

Pippa followed Hecate’s pointed finger and chuckled slightly. “Oh, Hecate, you’re not going to punish them? They’re probably just curious about what’s going on.”

“That remains to be seen.” Hecate said, her lips pursed. “I must investigate this.”

“Hecate, wait—”

Yet Hecate did not hear Pippa calling out, for she had already transferred herself to a safe distance from the intruders. She considered casting her own invisibility spell, but had a feeling that they would not notice her presence until she was almost upon them, so intent was their concentration on their quarry.

Hecate took cover behind a tree, seeing the disturbance in the air ahead of her. She tried to free her mind from her foolish jealousy—she could not believe that she had forgotten about Pippa’s plan to redirect Miss Nightscribe’s affections. She could even recall Pippa mentioning Mercy Whistlemoon by name. It was no matter—she had not said anything directly to Pippa. She simply needed to clear the sick feeling in her stomach that still weighed on her, and consider whether this changed anything about her decision.

At this distance, she could tell there were three distinct forms, and she already had a fairly good idea of who the troublemakers could be. She muttered an idle dispelling chant, and the three forms solidified into the shape of three familiar first years, sneaking melodramatically like thieves in the night—except they were bumbling first years in the broad daylight, and they were clearly making no attempt to move quietly.

Enid was the first to notice their predicament. “Wait— Millie, I can see you!”

“The spell must have worn off!” Mildred exclaimed.

Maud shook her head and groaned dramatically. “I _told_ you to make sure the amanita dust hadn’t gone stale.”

“Quick— hide here!” Enid made for one of the trees bedecked in magical lights.

Maud put an arm out to stop them. “We should go back. HB will kill us if she finds us snooping around.”

“I just want to find out what they’re up to—”

Hecate chose that moment to materialise directly behind them, and reared up to her fullest height. “What _who_, precisely, are up to?”

Three guilty, terrified faces wheeled around up at Hecate, their excitement draining rapidly as they realised the trouble they were in from Hecate’s downcast, furious face.

Mildred was the first to supply an answer. “Miss Hardbroom! We were— we were just—”

Maud took over as Mildred looked at her significantly. “—looking for Ethel. We saw her going into the forest—”

“—with Felicity—” Enid finished, the least convincing of the trio.

Hecate only had to put up a hand to silence them, and they all looked at the ground miserably. “This sounds like another of your harebrained schemes, Mildred. Maud, I am surprised that you are going along with this. I expected better from you.”

“But Miss Hardbroom—”

“You were all expressly told to remain in the castle today, under supervision, and yet you here you are, precisely where you were instructed to avoid.”

Enid shook her head. “Miss Hardbroom, please listen.”

Hecate shot her a narrow, dangerous look, but did not protest.

“The thing about Ethel and Felicity, it’s true. They wandered off into the forest. We think they’re going to some kind of party.”

Hecate folded her arms stiffly. “And you followed them because you wanted credit for finding evidence of such a gathering? Or because you wished to join in this illicit celebration?”

“We just wanted to—” Mildred began, but trailed off.

“Either way—whatever your intentions were, you should have reported Ethel and Felicity’s disappearance to a member of staff rather than taking matters into your own hands. The forest has not been without its dangers for these past few months, and it would do you well to remember that—as well as the being mindful of people who care for your well-being. This is an odd way to express your gratitude for the time that staff have set aside when they could have been been spending it much more pleasantly than ensuring students like yourselves do not wander off.”

The guilt appeared to be effective, having a satisfyingly quietening effect on them all. Mildred fingered one of her plaits as if to chew on it as she usually did in lessons, but thought better of it.

“Since you are here, you can make yourselves useful.” Hecate’s eye scrutinised them exactingly. “Take me to where you suspect this event might be taking place.” 

Mildred, Maud, and Enid looked miserably at each other, and, realising they had no option, led on. The forest closed around them—but the lack of leaves overhead meant that much of the bright sunlight filtered through the brittle branches and boughs. The light gradually diffused and cooled as they proceeded onwards and strayed further away from the weather spell that Ada had cast over the marquee. At least the girls had had the sense to bring their cloaks, Hecate thought.

They trudged on over the damp path, shivering slightly as they adjusted to the temperature drop—yet Hecate’s words cut through the air much more icily than did the wind. “If you are leading us on a wild goose chase, you will be in far more trouble than you are already.”

Maud seemed to feel remorseful enough to supply some information. “We don’t know _exactly_ where it’s going to be, but there is a place that’s kind of— well, it’s where—”

Enid elbowed Maud to stop her from continuing, but Hecate could see right through their childish body language. “Continue, Maud,” she said coolly.

“Well—” Maud said, her face crumpling with the realisation of what she was about to tell her teacher. “Some of the students from other schools use it as a meeting spot.”

Hecate’s chest swelled with contained fury. “Go on.”

“There’s some kind of secret invitation that goes out on Zapchat—I’ve never got one, but it tells you the password to let you in past the enchantment.”

Hecate rolled her eyes. The depths to which these children would go to ensure the hierarchy of popularity and exclusivity—even though advancements like maglets had changed communication vastly since her own youth, it was still exactly as it had been decades ago. 

In her day, rather than maglets the popular students—usually coven leaders, but not always—had charmed scrolls to mimic messages written on their master scroll in a one-way communication system. Their diligent followers would await instructions that would come through to their scrolls from their appointed leaders. It was one way that the in-crowd could facilitate their bullying of a particular student. Occasionally it had been used to give answers for homework, which had been a particularly disastrous catastrophe that Hecate had watched scathingly from the sidelines, when an entire third of her yeargroup had come up with identical essays for their potions mistress. The scrolls had been banned outright back then—the opportunity for abuse was too high and the teachers had had to intervene on more than one bullying attempt. Hecate knew from first-hand experience—although she had not been the one to complain to her teachers about being bullied.

Pippa herself had received several such mimic scrolls, since she was popular enough, and even had some from the girls in older years. Of course, she had her own master scroll as well, which she had had to relinquish, even though she had used it mostly responsibly, to arrange coven meetings—or to update her many admirers on how she would be wearing her hair, so that they could coordinate.

After the use of mimic scrolls had been banned, Pippa had enchanted one of Hecate’s spare exercise books and her own notebook with a variant on the mimic scroll magic so that she could write notes to Hecate during lessons, or if they were in separate areas of the castle. Hecate had felt uncomfortable going against the ban, but Pippa reasoned with her that neither of them were going to use the mimic spell to bully each other, which was why it was banned in the first place. Hecate had warmed to the idea in practice after being opposed to it in theory—although she was perhaps a little too good at resisting the urge to write Pippa messages while a lesson was taking place, which was a source of some irritation to Pippa.

Eventually, the trio led Hecate to where they suspected the meeting spot to be. Hecate could already sense several spells in effect around the area.

“You have to knock on that tree,” Maud said, pointing to a large oak, “and say whatever the password is. But I don’t know what it is this week.”

Hecate drew herself up to her full height. “That will not be necessary. This is a basic enchantment, easily broken with the right counter-spell. If you wish to conceal yourself for the sake of your popularity, you may do so now.”

The girls gratefully hurried off to hide behind a thicket of bracken, and Hecate effortlessly sent a ripple throughout the area, melting the invisible barrier. A thus unheard noise of music and laughter hit them as the spell failed. There, revealed sitting in small open wooden shelter, completely decked out with blankets, cauldron, and snacks, were an unsuspecting Ethel and Felicity, and several students wearing Pentangle’s and Amethyst’s uniforms. They all started at the sight of Hecate—Ethel went even paler than usual and looked alarmed at Felicity, who shrugged.

“Ethel Hallow—Felicity Foxglove—with me. The rest of you will return to your respective schools immediately. I shall inform your head teachers of your misdeeds.”

At Hecate’s sharp tone, the students muttered amongst themselves before sulkily acquiescing. She took a list of their names before allowing them to depart. Those from Pentangle’s transferred away, vanishing in purple mist. One of the Amethyst’s students poured a potion into the cauldron, before they all joined hands around it to complete their teleportation circle and vanished in a clap of thunder.

“Who ratted us out? This is so unfair,” Ethel moaned.

Hecate silenced her with a glare. “You both will be facing a week of detention.”

“A _week_?!” cried Felicity.

“Two weeks, then, if you prefer. Your maglet privileges are also to be revoked from now until the end of term—”

“—until the end of _term_?” Ethel cut in rudely. “I _need_ that maglet for my homework.”

“I am sure that Miss Nightscribe would be only too happy to help you find the books you require in the library,” Hecate returned airily. “Countless generations of Cackle’s students before you coped perfectly well enough without maglets, and many of them managed to achieve far better marks than either of you. I think you will find that your homework improves when you are not using the same sources as your classmates, and will allow you to better return to your roots as witches.”

Ethel sighed heavily, but protested no more, seeing that her teacher would have an answer to every complaint she had.

“If either of you is caught with a maglet before term is over, your punishment will be extended until the end of the school year.”

Felicity bit her lip. Hecate knew that she had been hoping to replace her maglet with a spare as soon as she could. 

“You will be hearing from me later regarding your detentions.” Without waiting a moment longer, Hecate transferred them both back to the castle, and turned to where the girls were hiding.

The trio emerged from the bracken, with identical smug expressions. Evidently they had heard the sentence Hecate had handed out to Ethel and Felicity.

“Do not look so pleased with yourselves,” Hecate said dryly to Mildred, Maud, and Enid. “You three will also be joining Ethel and Felicity in detention for three days.”

Hecate, with a wave of her hand, transferred two of the resigned trio to their dormitories. Mildred remained alone, frozen in a wince as she prepared to be transferred away—but she opened her eyes, confused as to why she was standing alone.

“Miss Hardbroom?”

“Mildred Hubble.” Hecate scrutinised the scruffy girl before her, with her laces undone and socks bunched around her ankles. “You do realise that your mother is, at this very moment, in the marquee on the school grounds.”

Mildred looked wide-eyed. “No, she didn’t tell me. What’s she doing there?”

Hecate raised an eyebrow, unsure how much she should divulge about the nature of Dimity and Julie’s relationship. “She was invited by Miss Drill. I believe they are friends.”

“Oh, yeah, on the camping trip they were spending a lot of time together,” Mildred said, nodding. “It’s a bit weird when your mum’s friends with a teacher.”

Hecate resisted comment. “I _was_ planning on allowing you to see her, since she is here.”

“Oh please! Please, Miss Hardbroom!” Mildred begged her. “I’ll do anything—I’ll scrub all the cauldrons after Potions class for a week!”

Sometimes the audacity of the students of today truly amazed Hecate. “Setting aside your misdemeanours for a moment, I believe it would be cruel to forbid you from seeing your mother. You will wait here patiently for me to assess this—structure—until we return.”

Mildred sat on a crude swing hanging from a tree near what appeared to be the remains of a campfire, while Hecate started surveying the area. They had built up quite the den—it seemed to have been there quite some time, judging by the age of the wood and the moss growing upon the roof of the shelter—perhaps even a decade. It seemed a shame to dismantle it, as she had initially felt the urge to. Seeing Mildred swinging her legs in boredom in the camp, just as she did on the potions lab stools, gave her a strange idea—there must certainly some academic use that this area could have. An outdoor classroom for field work would be invaluable—she would have to consult with the dryads, in the case of further development that would need to be done to improve the facilities that might disturb their forest.

For the time being, she cast a rebound spell on the area to ensure that any students attempting to make their way here by any sort of transportation magic would be immediately repelled from it and sent back to their original location. It would last for several days, which would scupper any students’ plans in the near future until the schools could be informed of the issue. 

Jerking her head at Mildred, she prepared to walk back to the marquee. The journey was not as painful as she expected, much as Mildred usually vexed her. Perhaps it was the prospect of seeing her mother that was lifting her spirits, but she was treating Hecate with politeness and respect, and asking questions about the magical herbs that could be found in the forest. Hecate found that she was not quite as eager to chivvy the girl along.

* * *

“Woah,” Mildred said, gazing up at the strings of lights in the trees in wonderment, when Hecate returned to the marquee with her in tow. “This is so cool.”

“You will not be permitted inside,” Hecate said, sharper than she meant. “This is not a reward for breaking the rules.”

She instructed Mildred to wait outside, while she swiftly located Ms Hubble within, who seemed delighted to hear that Mildred was waiting for her. She parted from Dimity with a kiss to her cheek—which left Dimity blushing—and then went to collect a plate of all of the foods she thought Mildred might like. Hecate opted to overlook this. She accompanied Ms Hubble out to the entrance, where she watched the warm reunion between mother and daughter as they threw their arms around each other and Mildred cried, “Mum!” Hecate turned away with a twinge in her heart.

Although she had not aimed to spend quite as long away from the party, it seemed to have turned out in her favour—for she felt energised by the time spent away from the oppressive crowds, which had thinned ever so slightly, and despite having to personally deal with irritating first years getting up to no good, there had been a few positives to that, too. 

Hecate still had blessedly not seen any sign of the representative from the Magic Council, as well. They would be noticeable by their ceremonial collar, which they were likely to be wearing on account of their being here on a semi-official capacity. Perhaps they had come and gone in the time that Hecate had been absent. Hecate was not overly concerned—she had no especial desire for the Council’s presence.

As she was casting her eyes around, she was struck with a small amount of guilt and tension as she noticed Pippa making a beeline for her. “Hecate, where have you _been_?” she demanded in a hushed tone.

“Investigating,” Hecate said. Her anxiety over their earlier conversation unwound itself from around her lungs as she told her about the secret meeting place, and gave her the list of names. Perhaps sensing Hecate’s change in mood, Pippa softened as Hecate gave her explanation, listening to the names with some disappointment, while trying not to be amused by Hecate’s analysis of the situation.

“You sound like you’ve unmasked an organised crime syndicate,” Pippa said with an airy laugh.

“In a way, I feel as though I have,” Hecate replied. 

“There must be something positive we can take from this. How about a little knowledge exchange between our schools?” Pippa suggested. “They’re obviously eager to meet up with witches from other academies, so why don’t we encourage that? We could have a weekend workshop where each yeargroup gets the opportunity to mingle with their counterparts from another school—no popularity contest, no exclusive passwords. I’d be happy to arrange that with Pentangle’s and Cackle’s, since our schools are close enough for the distance to be less of a disruption.”

“I cannot speak for Ada, but that seems like an excellent idea. You really have unique ways of handling difficult situations, Pippa,” Hecate said warmly. “I would never have thought of a way to transform this into an educational opportunity.”

“I just—thought that if the students are meeting up in secret, then there must be some desire to communicate with students from other schools. If we’re going to shut down unsafe meeting spots, we should at least let them continue to meet up in a way that we can control.” Pippa put her hand on Hecate’s forearm. “And besides, it would mean—maybe we could work together more. I’d love to have more opportunities to see you, Hecate.”

Hecate felt Pippa’s hand keenly through the silk sleeve, and did not quite meet her eye as she responded, “indeed, that would be—nice.”

Inside, however, Hecate felt the despondency creep back. She knew that Pippa would invite her to Pentangle’s—and just like every other time Pippa had done so, she would have to decline. She excused herself to get a cup of tea, intending to be waylaid by one conversation or another on her return.

* * *

Hecate had a quick word with Ada by the hot drinks table, letting her know about the meeting spot she had uncovered and the vagrant students. Ada seemed a little disappointed that Hecate had had to deal with that on her birthday alone, but Hecate dismissed her concerns, stating that the walk had given her a refreshing break. She also mentioned her outdoor classroom idea, and Pippa’s workshop proposal to her—both of which she seemed rather keen on—but Ada reminded her that school talk should wait until tomorrow, at least.

Hextilda Amethyst was in the seated area with Lavinia—Hecate hoped that she was in a better mood with her, particularly now that her friend seemed to have arrived. The witch with her was middle-aged, and had long blonde hair wound around the back of her head with a fringe that fell to her eyebrows. She had bright, alert blue eyes that blinked curiously as Hecate approached them, asking permission to sit with them.

“Yes, of course. Come and sit with us for a spell, Hecate. Have you met dear Lavinia? She’s renowned in the field of divination,” Hextilda said, smiling toothily.

“What _kind_ of divination?” Hecate inquired. Not all branches of divination were created equal, in her mind. It was not a particularly popular form of magic, and to many, it was not considered magic at all.

“All kinds, but I specialise in astrology and oracle readings, and— I am a clairvoyant.” Lavinia gazed up at Hecate, gathering her beaded shawl about her. “It’s your birthday, is it not?”

“If that was a prediction, you shall have to do better than that,” Hecate raised a sardonic eyebrow. She had her doubts about anyone who described themselves as a _clairvoyant_, particularly since most refused to have their visions tested against more accurate means of seeing the future, such as potions. 

“Let me calculate your birth chart,” Lavinia said, clutching for Hecate’s hand, “or I could read your palm?”

Hecate brought her hand up to her chest out of reach of Lavinia, and curled her fingers in towards her palm. “I believe in magic that can be measured, rather than superstitions and glorified guesswork,” Hecate returned. “If it could be done by an Ordinary person, then it simply cannot be magic.”

“Now, now, Hecate,” Hextilda barked. “Don’t be rude. Give her a chance.”

Hecate and Hextilda had often disagreed on the validity of divining magic. Hecate suspected that Hextilda had only invited Lavinia Crotchet because she knew she would be a challenge to Hecate’s stubborn closed-mindedness. Sometimes that witch could be maddening, brilliant though she was.

“Very well,” Hecate sighed, and perched rigidly on the armchair opposite Lavinia.

Ada hovered nearby. Although she was seated on the next nearest armchair, holding a conversation with someone else, Hecate could see her striking blue eyes watching with intrigue.

Lavinia began taking various crystals, animal bones, and carved sticks out of her carpet bag and deposited them on the coffee table between them while she looked for something. “Do you have a particular question you want answered? A reading on your past? Past life? Speaking with the dead?”

Hecate’s mouth curled in displeasure at the scattering of objects before her. She let the stab of grief be quashed by her utter disdain for the practice and what she was about to endure. “No.”

“A general reading then.” 

At last, Lavinia found a deck of oracle cards wrapped in a cloth, and cleared a space on the table. She took the fine diaphanous scarf from around her neck and drew it over her face like a veil, before unfolding the cloth from the cards, and began shuffling the cards solemnly with her eyes closed. Hecate rolled her eyes—virtually every witch she had met who had an interest in divination also had a flair for the dramatic. She supposed it was all part of making the act seem more plausible than the smoke and mirrors it purported to be.

Pointing at the three cards in turn, she spoke in a very quiet voice, such that Hecate had to lean closer to hear her. “Eel. Transformation. Mantis. You have been deceived by one who wears many a mask. You fear being manipulated again.” Lavinia looked up, as if to analyse Hecate’s reaction.

Hecate remained stoic. It had been vague enough that it could have applied to virtually any person in the room.

Lavinia sniffed, clearly frustrated by Hecate’s sceptical silence. “Doll. Braid. Snail. Your childhood, or perhaps an old wound keeps you fearing for how others see you. You do not wish others to see your fragility, burying yourself deep in your shell to protect your identity.”

Hecate bristled. Lavinia was getting too close to the bone, now. Many people had difficulties or struggles in their childhoods—and if they did not, certainly had regrets or things by which they were still troubled. It was no great feat of clairvoyance to be able to make such sweeping statements—even though the image of the braid and Lavinia’s comment specifically about protecting her _identity_ made her painfully recall how she had worn her hair before Mistress Broomhead, and the secret of her old self—of Joy.

“House. Ghost. Hedgehog. You have unfinished business—something keeping you stagnating. You find comfort in the stagnation, since it prevents you from unfolding yourself and showing your vulnerability and tenderness—”

Hecate stood up suddenly—too furious to speak—and turned on her heel towards Pippa, who appeared to be waiting for her.

“Wait— there is one final card— a warning—” Lavinia caught up to her, and gripped onto Hecate’s forearm. 

Hecate recoiled and stared at Lavinia as though she had taken leave of her senses. “I have no interest in seeing it—”

Lavinia showed her, heedless of Hecate’s protests. In her quaking, pale hand was a single card, displaying the unearthly silhouette of a figure, dark and dominating against the pale background. “The Stranger. Beware a strange man. You must not trust him—”

Hecate wrenched her arm away. “Thank you for the warning,” she forced herself to say. It was the only thing she thought would make her leave her alone. Pippa peered curiously over at them, and closed the distance, biting her lip.

Lavinia nodded sagely, convinced that she had done all she could, before retreating.

“Are you all right, Hecate?” Pippa asked tentatively. “Were her readings accurate?”

Hecate took a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “Such card readings are designed to apply to any number of circumstances. The untrained mind sees similarities with their own life and assumes that the predictions must be accurate.”

“Nothing to be concerned over, then,” Pippa reassured her. “Even if it can be unsettling.”

Across the other side of the marquee, Hecate noted Julie Hubble returning with an empty plate, wiping the underside of her eyes carefully so that she would not smudge her makeup. Perhaps she had done the right thing in allowing Mildred to see her mother.

Hecate glanced back to where Lavinia was sitting, feeling her brief moment of positivity waning. Ada’s interest must have been piqued, for she had taken the seat opposite her. Ada’s glasses sparkled as she leaned in, gazing upon Lavinia as she shuffled the stack of oracle cards again, and laid them out, beginning to read Ada’s fortune. Hecate rolled her eyes dramatically.

“Don’t let her get to you. Why don’t you come and meet my parents,” Pippa said to Hecate. Just as Hecate’s stomach bottomed out with this suddenly sprung on her, Pippa unexpectedly linked arms with her and led her to where a blonde woman and a man with bright white hair were being served more wine.

Hecate swallowed nervously. She had never met Dr and Mr Pentangle before, but she had heard plenty about them. The thought that they had been here all this time, in the same place as she, was perhaps even more unsettling than Lavinia’s reading.

“Mummy, Daddy—” Pippa’s parents turned as they heard their daughter’s voice, and both assumed polite expressions of surprise to see her with Hecate. “I’d love you to meet Hecate Hardbroom,” Pippa announced.

“Oh, happy birthday!” Pippa’s mother said effusively, immediately taking Hecate’s hand and squeezing it. Hecate looked about like a cornered cat, hoping no one had heard the word ‘birthday’, while nodding in thanks. “It’s so good to finally meet you. And aren’t you the gorgeous couple, with your matching dresses!”

The word _couple_ almost had Hecate on the floor in shock, but Dr Pentangle cannot have meant anything by it. Pippa did not seem taken aback or embarrassed by any means. Hecate stammered out a thank you.

“Just a little treat for Hecate’s birthday,” Pippa said. “I thought it would be fun!”

Pippa’s father seemed a little warier than his wife; in a comment to his daughter that was not entirely private, he said sharply, “Pippa, is this the same young Miss Hardbroom who—”

“—Daddy!” Pippa protested, eyes widening. “That was _ages_ ago, and Hecate and I have sorted through all that. Haven’t we, Hecate?”

“Of course,” Hecate responded awkwardly, hoping she would escape this conversation unscathed. She had no doubt that Pippa’s parents had been the recipients of the heartbreak Pippa had suffered in the holiday between when she left Cackle’s, having just been dumped by the teenage Hecate Hardbroom, and when she had departed for Cambridge to attend Weirdsister College.

“So, you’re a teacher at Cackle’s,” Mr Pentangle said. “You didn’t want to pursue higher education?”

“She’s deputy headmistress,” Pippa supplied. “And I hardly think Hecate wants to talk about that on her birthday.”

Hecate was grateful for Pippa’s interjection. She could hardly explain to Pippa why she had not gone on to study at Weirdsister College with her, as had always been their plan.

“Tell us how you saved the Founding Stone,” Dr Pentangle said, eager to take over the conversation from her overly defensive husband.

This was a conversation Hecate was much more willing to have—surprisingly, she had not been asked to recount it by anyone else, so she did not feel as though she told it as well as she might have, with a little more practice. Pippa offered her own perspective where it was necessary—and both of them omitted the fact that Pippa had found Hecate being seduced by the illusionist. They were quite the captive audience. By the time they had finished telling their tale, Hecate had quite warmed to them—and was surprised to see that a small crowd had gathered that rivalled the queue that had developed for Lavinia Crotchet’s oracle readings. Hecate was unfamiliar with having any kind of parental figure who had taken interest in her life since she could remember—and it was confusing, but rather a comfort.

Ada had been in the crowd of interested listeners to their tale, and a meaningful glance passed between she and Pippa—Ada smiled and nodded, and slipped off mysteriously. Hecate’s brow furrowed as she wondered what could be going on. Pippa continued to try to distract Hecate, but her attempts were very transparent, and Hecate knew that some kind of surprise was being put into effect. She began to grow quite anxious—worrying what awful thing Ada was up to. She only hoped that it would not involve public embarrassment.

Her torture was not prolonged for much longer. Ada reappeared without much ceremony, followed by two waiters, who were levitating a large, multi-tiered cake between them. Hecate watched in horror, but no one burst into song—nor were there any candles. The cake was simply placed onto an area of the spotless white tablecloth beside the tea sandwiches—and that was all.

“I knew that you would cast a silencing spell at the first indication of anyone singing Happy Birthday to you, my dear, but I couldn’t resist the cake,” Ada said quietly to her. “I would have liked to have seen you blow out some candles, but—” Ada smiled and shook her head. “Perhaps not in quite so public a space.”

The cake was covered entirely in dark chocolate buttercream, with lavishly piped roses in shades of deep red around the tiers and on top. Hecate had never seen anything like it—least of all, made for _her_. She stood silently, feeling tears bead in her eyes as she saw it.

“All right, Hecate?” Pippa said, putting her arm around her and squeezing her shoulder.

“Yes— I’m sorry—”

Before Hecate had a chance to fully recover use of her voice, Ada stepped up beside the cake and tapped her glass with a spoon—calling for silence and to gather everyone around.

“Today we celebrate an important day—we mark the saving of Cackle’s Founding Stone. Cackle’s is the very first and oldest of Britain’s Witching Academies, so preserving its Founding Stone is of utmost importance not just to the students and who benefit from the passing down of our ancient and noble craft from generation to generation, but also to the history of witchcraft in Britain.

“We owe a great debt to Hecate Hardbroom—who, with the invaluable assistance of Pippa Pentangle, former Cacklian and founder and headmistress of our neighbouring school, Pentangle’s, and our librarian Mattie Nightscribe, a recent but cherished member of staff—was prepared to make a great sacrifice for her school, to which she has been devoted her entire life. Hecate has put Cackle’s, its students, and staff ahead of her on multiple occasions in the past, and has risked her own safety twice already this term. For that we honour her.

“We are all the richer for having known Hecate, and we hope that she will be around for many more years to teach us, to keep us well-disciplined, and to bring to us the quiet, kind companionship that she graciously shares when she isn’t working hard to ensure the future of witchcraft is secure.

“If you would join me in raising your glasses to Hecate, our modest but spectacular Potions Mistress—and the most wonderful deputy head I could ever have asked for.”

Ada smiled across to Hecate, who was stood awkwardly as the toast rippled across the room around them. She had not expected Ada to make a speech—it had been overwrought and made her want to hide away from the eyes upon her—but she was incredibly relieved that there had been no mention of her birthday.

Pippa, still at her side, met her eye as she raised her own glass. “To you.”

“And to you,” Hecate responded, lifting hers.

A round of applause broke out around them unexpectedly, startling the both of them out of the moment, and Hecate smiled hesitantly and nodded in humble acceptance.

Hecate was presented a large knife by one of the waiters—and it was a moment before she realised that she was meant to make the first slice into the cake with it. She thought it a shame to cut into, for it was an object of beauty, but she was sure that there were many people waiting on having a slice of the cake. She sank the knife into the top tier, trying not to entirely destroy the beautiful piping on top that must have been the work of many an hour.

Another brief but enthusiastic round of applause followed this, before Hecate gratefully stepped out of the limelight, and the guests went back to their conversations. Pippa transferred one of the small two-seater sofas close to them, in a quiet corner. Hecate sat down heavily, her head still ringing from the applause. Pippa joined her, her thigh brushing against Hecate’s. They quietly watched as the catering staff continued to cut the cake, with Hecate all too aware of the feeling against her leg.

“You survived,” Pippa smiled at her.

“I did,” Hecate replied, sighing. “It was— quite heartwarming, I suppose.”

“I’m glad it wasn’t too unpleasant for you.”

“Perhaps just a little overwhelming.” Hecate squeezed her hands together in her lap.

“Well, I think I have just the thing to make it slightly more bearable—”

Pippa summoned from the air a plate and a cake fork—she had saved her a sizeable slice from the very top tier of the cake, with most of one of the dark red roses upon it. She waved a hand, and a single small birthday candle appeared, lit, and flickering warmly.

“Happy birthday, Hecate,” Pippa murmured, and held out the plate to her. “Make a wish.”

Hecate took the plate in both her hands. Her pocket watch held a few years of moments like this one—where she could feel the warmth of the candlelight upon her face for a few moments before she had blown out the candles when her mother was still alive, but Hecate had not experienced this moment since, and found herself at a loose end.

_I wish—_

For what would she wish? Success for the academy? The troubles with Agatha’s coven to be over? A small bead of wax dripped down the side of the candle from the hint of blue haze around the curling black wick. 

“There are so many things one could wish for,” Hecate said, overcome with the moment and her many feelings.

“Something your heart wants. Something that you can carry with you,” Pippa said, her voice gentle.

Hecate looked deep into the flame. _I wish— for Pippa’s happiness—that she will find what she truly deserves, and be happy with whomever she desires most._

She blew out the candle. Pippa was clapping softly beside her as Hecate watched the smoke spiral away from the last glowing ember in the wick, hoping—although it seemed foolish to her to hope such a thing—that wishes made on birthday candles meant something.

* * *

After they had had cake, and their fill of socialising, many of the less invested guests had left; those remaining mainly consisted of people Hecate knew relatively well—almost entirely consisting of the staff at Cackle’s—or those who were there for Pippa. It was a far more relaxed environment—the marquee had more space to breathe, with distinctly a few fewer faces around. Poppy Pokeweed was mercifully gone—in fact, Hecate did not think she had seen her since she returned from the forest—and the party seemed the more pleasant for it.

Hecate’s eyes were trained on Pippa, who had excused herself to say a quick belated hello to some of the guests she had not had a chance to speak to yet, which she had said she had better do before they left. She had presently found herself half-involved in a conversation with Gwendolyn and Lavinia—who were apparently old friends, and from the little that Hecate had gathered from her inattentive listening, discovered that they had met on a chanting course. 

Justine Nightscribe was at the piano, playing something jazzy along with the enchantment that was still continuing to play, while Mattie Nightscribe stood awkwardly in her shadow, supplying notes every now and again to tease her older sister. Hecate was surprised that Justine appeared to be quite the accomplished pianist. For some reason, when she had said that she was in a band, Hecate assumed that she could only create horribly distorted sounds from an Ordinary electric guitar, but she apparently knew a thing or two about music.

Hecate folded her arms across her chest as she watched a few people take to the open floor and dance along to Justine’s playing, who, in response to having an audience, started to put a little more pizzazz into her performance. What had started out as playful plinking had transformed into something quite lively.

Lavinia and Gwendolyn were exchanging some story or another about a mutual acquaintance, and did not notice through their tearful laughter as Hecate excused herself to take a seat by the side of the room. Already there had been too much socialisation for her. She noticed Mercy Whistlemoon carrying some drinks over to the younger Miss Nightscribe by the piano—evidently they seemed to be getting along, for Miss Nightscribe’s cheeks glowed in that way they had done whenever Hecate had addressed her. They resumed a conversation that Hecate could not hear, but she expected it had something to do with their commonality in their employment, since they were both speaking equally passionately and without the awkwardness that they had earlier.

Among the dancers were Dimity and Ms Hubble, who were very close, dancing not to any particular beat. Justine began playing a slower song—she had dispelled the enchantment on the piano now, in order that she could better play on her own. Dimity and Ms Hubble seemed to have barely registered the shift in the tempo of the music—they seemed too entranced by each other. 

Hecate watched them with a growing longing—she did not wish to dance, she told herself, for dancing was something she did away with long ago—but their connection to each other made the heart within her want to reach out for something more. Seeing what she knew she could never have—it was torture. Hecate found herself suffocating in the sound of the piano—the laughter—the conversations—the dancing of couples. She stood, and found her feet carrying her out of the marquee—out into the darkening early evening, where the sound of the piano was dulled and the voices quieter. 

By now, the earliest stars were out, and the lights on the trees outside provided a steady glow that illuminated the rough bark of the boughs. The moon was full and bright, though low to the horizon still. Hecate looked up to Venus against the bowl of the sky above her. She reminded her of Pippa—radiant, brighter than anyone else in the room—more strikingly beautiful than even the planet herself.

The evening’s peace helped to quell the overwhelming emotions, lulling them into a slow ebb. She would go on—she would continue. It was merely that times such as this were difficult. She wondered when this event would be over—when she would be allowed simply to go back to her chambers in the cool, still castle, where she could sit comfortably in mutual silence with Morgana. Her fingertips went to the pocket watch around her neck.

“Hecate.”

Her heart lurched. Pippa must have followed her—why did she have to appear at the most inopportune moments? She did not turn—seeing Pippa’s face would only make her emotions twist within her in anguish again—but she had to acknowledge her words with something. “Venus is particularly beautiful tonight.”

“She is,” Pippa responded, closer now. Hecate could see her shining white and gold dress out of the corner of her eye as she stepped up to Hecate’s side. “Too much for you in there?”

“I needed some time to myself,” Hecate said, wary as she felt Pippa’s eyes upon her.

“You never were one for dancing.”

Hecate hesitated. Pippa could not be more wrong. “That is— not quite accurate. I used to love dancing, but I have not done so for a long time now.” A sad half-smile quivered at her lips, and she tore her gaze away from the stars, and let her eyes fall to Pippa’s.

“Well—” Inexplicably—Pippa extended her hand towards her. “May I have this dance?”

Hecate could feel her heart beating so urgently that she thought Pippa could be able to see the shimmer of the fabric on her chest. “Would you not rather dance with someone more—”

“—No,” Pippa shook her head, looking directly into Hecate’s eyes. 

Hecate felt like her soul had been laid bare before her. She did not wish to offend Pippa—and perhaps it was her weakness in longing to be held—but she found that she was helpless to decline such an insistent, (and in her wildest imagination) romantic proposition. She let herself surrender to Pippa’s behest, and placed her hand into hers.

Hecate’s instinct was to position her hands as if she were going to lead, since she was much taller, but she felt Pippa’s free hand at her waist through her corset, and subsequently put her own—trembling—on Pippa’s bare shoulder, wondering how in the name of magic she was going to make it through without stepping on Pippa’s toes with her unpractised, clumsy motions—particularly since the skin beneath her fingers was so soft, and her other hand was clasped in Pippa’s in a way that evoked all the memories of their teenage relationship from so long ago.

Pippa took her hand briefly from Hecate’s waist—the melody of the piano rose above as the other sounds of talking and laughter fell to a whisper. Hecate waited for Pippa to make the first move—and Pippa stepped into her space as they both slipped into the music’s hold.

Pippa was a confident dancer, and had no difficulty steering the taller Hecate to her rhythm. She seemed to feel, rather than time her movements, and Hecate had the sense that she was excelling in an easy routine rather than holding herself back for Hecate’s sake.

Hecate’s movements felt rather graceless as she let Pippa turn her about, her dress swishing around her legs as Pippa twirled her out—the stars span overhead—and drew her back into her body again. Hecate gradually grew in confidence as she moved closer to Pippa, feeling a skip in her heart every time their bodies came so close to touching—and then drew apart again as the song urged them on, never quite allowing them to meet.

The song came to a gradual end—but Pippa did not immediately let go. Hecate did not know what was coming next—could she dare hope?—her eyes flicking between Pippa’s—down to her lips—but Pippa closed her into a trusting, chaste embrace, her hands tight on Hecate’s shoulder blades. Hecate felt the warmth between their bodies blossom—and then they parted—but Pippa’s hand slipped down her arm and lingered in her hand.

“We ought to go back in,” Hecate said, swallowing.

“Perhaps you’re right,” Pippa sighed, and her muffling spell dropped as her shoulders fell. A bracing clamour of laughter came upon them both at the same time. 

Their hands loosened and drifted apart—but Hecate still felt as though a thread was drawing her hand back to Pippa’s. She resisted the urge to find Pippa’s hand again—it would have been so easy to casually link their fingers together—as they walked back through the tunnel, with the low shining archway of lights around them as they returned to the bustle inside.

Justine was still on the piano stool down the far end of the marquee, and most of the guests appeared to be surrounding the piano, or else finding more nibbles and wine. Both Hecate and Pippa accidentally stole glances at each other at the same time as they walked together—Hecate blushed to be caught looking, and Pippa smiled at what she saw. Hecate resolutely kept her eyes fixed dead ahead at the piano and joined the throng, feeling self-conscious about the fact that she and Pippa had walked in together and were standing by each other—definitely much closer than Hecate usually allowed someone to be to her.

Ada, who seemed like she might have had a little too much witches’ brew suggested that Gwendolyn should play the school song. Justine made room for her on the piano stool. Gwendolyn must have been a little giddy too, for she launched into the familiar opening notes with great eagerness before Justine could prepare herself fully, and had to jump in at the right beat with a plodding bass. It was the most animated Hecate had seen Gwendolyn playing for some time.

Hecate would not usually have enjoyed this sort of thing, but the atmosphere was admittedly rather jolly, and Pippa was quite enthusiastic as she leaned on the edge of the piano. Her vivacity was infectious—close up, where Hecate did not feel as though she were on the outside. 

Those gathered around the piano, including many of the guests, Lavinia Crotchet, Hextilda, and Pippa’s parents—current and former and honorary Cacklians joined together, all singing, _Onward, ever striving onward, proudly on our brooms we fly_. Hecate could not remember a time that she had felt more part of something as she sang slightly self-consciously along with everyone, catching Ada’s twinkling eye, Dimity’s broad smile next to Ms Hubble (who had the expression of someone struggling on through a tune they did not know in the slightest), Gwendolyn’s mischievous smile as the chain attached to her glasses bobbed back and forth—Hecate was proud to call Cackle’s her home, with these people who all were there for the passion that they had for education and the preservation of the Craft.

Hecate looked down at Pippa to her side, whose voice had suddenly petered out as they reached the final line—and was surprised to see her eyes filling with tears as they all sang, _when our days at school are over, let us think of them with pride_.

Pippa put on a brave smile as the pianists hammered out the final chord rhythmically for effect to the applause of the room. Hecate wordlessly tried to catch Pippa’s eye to see if there was something wrong.

“Oh dear—” Pippa said to everyone as she wiped away her tears. “Once a Cackle’s girl, always a Cackle’s girl. I do miss this place awfully sometimes.”

“Are you all right?” Hecate muttered to her quietly.

“I’m fine, Hecate, don’t you worry,” Pippa sniffed. “Cackle’s is just— you don’t know what you’ve left behind, when you leave.”

As Hecate wondered if Pippa meant something more by her words, she noticed a dark figure of a man silhouetted faintly against the dim light from the marquee tunnel—he did not look like any of the guests she had seen around earlier.

Lavinia’s words came back to her—_The Stranger_.

Hecate mentally shook herself. It was a ridiculous thought. From a distance, he looked to be an older man leaning on a cane—he began to approach the group of them at the piano, unsteady on his feet as he shuffled forwards.

Hecate looked harder at the man, whose features were familiar to her, but in an uncanny way. His clothing was casual, but of exceedingly fine quality—the tailoring of his brown suit was immaculate. Hecate suddenly went white as a sheet—the thin moustache and slicked back hair—white now, but still full-bodied as ever. She knew him, stranger though he was.

“Excuse me, I’m looking for my daughter—”

Although he was much older than Hecate had recalled him to be, Hecate knew in her gut who he was.

“Father,” she said, her voice wooden and emotionless.

Hecate’s anxiety tightened painfully in her chest. She looked to Ada, who seemed to have sobered at once upon hearing what Hecate had said—then to Pippa by her side, whose wide eyes seemed fearful—or was she surprised?

She turned her face back towards him, and stepped away from the piano towards him—keeping her distance—wondering why he should have come at all—just as she had been feeling as though things were going right.

The man’s face crumpled into an unreadable expression. 

“Joy?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's bAAACK
> 
> asdkhasfkhj
> 
> this BIRTHDAY plot has been in my head for a REeally long time - apparently since 18th august, so i'm really excited to FINALLY get to share it
> 
> Lavinia Crotchet, if you don't know, is from tww98! she replaces Miss Bat as chanting mistress when Miss Bat leaves. there's a line in the episode The Unfairground where she warns Miss Hardbroom not to walk under a ladder, to which she retorts with, "Oh yes and I'm born under Capricorn so my knees will give way, in the year of the pig, so I won't worry as long as I carry a blue crystal to reinforce my aura! You're the only witch I know who believes all that poppycock!" i thought this was a super interesting dynamic that i wanted to explore more (the note has been in my ideas since the 9th of october 2019, and i kept moving it to the next chapter and the next until i finally got a chance to put her in).
> 
> in the series, she reads tarot cards, but i changed this to oracle cards because i have often used this very oracle deck (The Literary Witches Oracle) to do readings for characters in my fics for inspiration. Hecate's disapproval does not reflect my own views, just is based on what Constance Hardbroom says in 98. the card of "the stranger" doesn't exist in the deck, but all the others do and have their original meanings.
> 
> the full moon and time of sunset/moonrise places the date of Hecate's birthday on 12th november of last year. i vaguely calculated when Miss Hardbroom's birthday might be in [this](https://heathtrash.tumblr.com/post/187096076118/so-what-is-hecate-hardbrooms-star-sign-i-was) post and well, i decided to make her a Scorpio a while back and for Plot Reasons felt like i should stick to that. feel free to disagree! i know that in the quotation above, Constance says "I'm born under Capricorn" but i gave reasons why i feel like Hecate can only either be Scorpio or Sagittarius in the post, and i think Constance is being flippant about literally everything she's saying. but that said, i don't 100% headcanon this tbh and Capricorn DOES fit her incredibly well. anyway, if you remember this post and remembered that this plot was already forecast then WELL DONE
> 
> i told myself this would be 14-18k but look it's 23349 words OOP
> 
> let me know what you think!!! aaaaaa
> 
> thank you to old readers, new readers, and people who are accidentally here and can't find their way out
> 
> lots of love  
Heathcliff  
[tumblr](http://heathtrash.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/heathtrash)


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